-    v 


• 


BANCROFT 

LIBRARY 

«• 

THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


LEGENDS 


OF 


MEXICO, 


BY    GEORGE    LIPPARD, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  LEGENDS  OF  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION," 
"THE  QUAKER  CITY,"  ETC.  ETC. 


"  We  fight  not  to  enslave,  nor  for  conquest; 
But  to  make  room  upon  the  earth  for  honest  men  to  live  in." 

THE  Caisi»— 1776. 


$  f)  1 1  a  5 1 1  p  I)  i  a : 

T.  B.  PETERSON,  98  CHESNUT  STREET. 

1847. 


.  \ 


ENTERED  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847,  by 

T.    B.    PETERSON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


Stereotyped  by 
H.  P.  MOOBIDG E — PHILAD'A. 

King  £  Baird,  Printers. 


r-  P 


THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 


I.— THE  CRUSADE  OF  THE  NINETEENTH  CENTURY. 

'«  Ho  !  for  the  New  Crusade  !" 

It  was  in  the  spring  of  1846,  that  this  cry,  thundering  from  twenty-nine 
states,  aroused  a  People  into  arms,  and  startled  Europe,  its  Kings  and 
Slaves,  into  shuddering  awe. 

It  was  in  the  dawn  of  the  year,  when  the  blossoms  of  spring  were  upon 
the  trees,  and  the  Promise  of  a  golden  harvest  on  the  fields,  that  a  fiery 
blast  came  from  the  far  south,  scattering  the  blossoms  of  battle  over  the 
hills  of  our  land,  and  darkening  the  sky  with  clouds  of  lurid  grandeur — 
clouds  that  gave  Promise  of  a  harvest  of  blood. 

In  the  spring  of  1846,  from  the  distant  south,  there  came  echoing  in 
terrible  chorus,  a  Cry,  a  Groan,  a  Rumor  !  That  Cry,  the  earnest  voice 
of  two  thousand  brave  men,  gathered  beneath  the  Banner  of  the  stars  in  a 
far  land,  encompassed  by  their  foes,  with  nothing  but  a  bloody  vision 
of  Massacre  before  their  eyes.  And  the  Cry,  wrung  from  two  thousand 
manly  hearts,  said  the  People  of  the  Union. —  We  are  in  danger,  but  the 
Banner  of  the  Stars  floats  above  us.  An  army,  twice  our  number  sur 
rounds  us,  Assassins  hung  like  vultures,  in  the  shadows  of  our  camp,  a 
Plague  broods  in  the  poisonous  air,  of  the  swamp  and  chaparral.  Come 
— help  us — fight  with  us  !  Or  if  you  cannot  fight,  Come,  and  behold  us 
die,  for  the  flag  of  Washington  !' 

„  That  groan  !  It  was  the  incoherent  yell,  of  the  first  American  soldier, 
who  with  the  knife  in  his  back,  and  the  hot  blood  gurgling  from  his 
throat,  fell  at  the  Assassin's  feet  on  the  shores  of  Rio  Grande. 

The  Rumor  !  Like  the  hurricane  of  the  tropics  it  came.  First,  a  small 
cloud  in  a  serene  sky,  far  on  the  horizon  it  was  seen,  and  no  one  won 
dered  to  behold  it.  Then  darkening  up  the  zenith,  it  shut  the  southern 
sky  in  a  wall  of  ebony,  and  flashed  its  quivering  lightnings  far  over  the 
snow  mountains  of  the  north.  And  it  rolled  on,  that  brooding  Rumor,  and 
it  gathered,  and  it  grew,  until  its  shadow  darkened  the  Nation,  and  its 
thunder  and  lightning  spoke  to  the  hearts  of  fifteen  millions  people. 

an 


12  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

For  that  Rumor  spoke  of  a  battle,  fought  by  American  soldiers,  amid 
the  sands  and  thorns  of  the  hot  chaparrel ;  it  spoke  of  hideous  charges, 
made  through  the  darkness  of  yawning  ravines,  by  men  heroic  to  despair ; 
it  spoke  of  a  contest,  lengthening  its  bloody  trail  over  the  course  of  two 
long  days  ;  of  a  brave  foe,  fighting  while  there  was  a  hope,  and  then 
crowding  in  heaps  of  wounded,  through  the  lone  desert,  and  choking  the 
calm  river  with  their  mangled  dead. 

As  thunder  at  once,  convulses  antl  purifies  the  air,  so  that  Rumor  did 
its  sudden  and  tempestuous  work,  in  every  American  heart.  At  once, 
from  the  People  of  twenty-nine  states,  quivered  the  Cry — 

"  To  Arms  !  Ho  !  for  the  new  crusade  !" 

Never  since  the  days  of  Washington,  had  an  excitement,  so  wild  and 
universal,  thrilled  in  the  souls  of  freemen.  From  the  mountains  of 
Maine — they  are  yonder,  rising  ruggedly  in  their  stern  grandeur,  with 
snowy  mantles,  bound  about  their  granite  brows — to  the  prairies  of  the 
Texas — blossoming  for  hundreds  of  miles,  a  wilderness  of  flowers — that 
cry  startled  a  People  into  action,  and  sent  the  battle-throbs  palpitating 
through  fifteen  millions  hearts. 

Long  after  we  are  dead,  History  will  tell  the  children  of  ages  yet  to 
come,  how  the  hosts  gathered  for  the  Crusade,  in  the  year  1846. 

From  the  mountain  gorges  of  the  north,  hardy  birds  of  freemen  took 
their  way,  turning  their  faces  to  the  south,  and  shouting — Mexico  !  In 
the  great  cities,  immense  crowds  assembled,  listening  in  stern  silence,  to 
the  stories  of  that  far-off  land,  with  its  luxuriant  fruits,  its  plains  of  flow 
ers,  its  magnificent  mountains  overshadowing  calm  lakes  and  golden  cities, 
and  then  the  cry  rung  from  ten  thousand  throats — Mexico  !  The  farm 
houses  of  the  land,  thrilled  with  the  word.  Yes,  the  children  of  Revolu 
tionary  veterans,  took  the  rifle  of  '76  from  its  resting  place,  over  the 
hearth,  and  examined  its  lock,  by  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  and  ere 
another  dawn,  were  on  their  way  to  the  south,  shouting  as  they  extended 
their  hands  toward  the  unseen  land — "  Mexico  !" 

Even  now  I  see  the  panorama  of  that  wild  excitement  spread  varied 
and  bewildering  before  me.  I  see  the  workshop,  give  forth  its  hardy  Me 
chanic — I  see,  the  sturdy  mountaineer,  come  from  his  gorge — the  em- ' 
browned  farmer  from  his  fields — the  pale  student  from  his  desk — and  all 
join  the  army  of  the  New  Crusade,  and  pour  with  arms  glittering  and 
banners  waving  upon  the  plains  of  Mexico. 

The  world  beheld  the  sight  and  wondered.  Old  Germany,  festering 
under  her  chains,  looked  up  in  awe,  at  this  strange  spectacle — an  every 
day  people  suddenly  transformed  into  a  disciplined  army.  France,  saw 
it  too,  and  sighed  as  she  turned  her  eyes  to  the  grave  of  Napoleon.  But 
England,  hypocritical  and  ferocious,  at  once  the  fox  and  the  hyena,  crouch 
ing  on  her  trophies, — the  skulls  of  Irish  starvation  and  the  corses  of  Hindoo 
Massacre — England,  whom  we  hurled  from  our  shores  in  the  Revolution, 


THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR.  13 

and  chased,  ignominiously  from  our  seas,  in  the  second  war,  England, 
that  Carthage  of  Modern  History,  brutal  in  her  revenge  and  Satanic  in  her 
lust  for  human  flesh,  behold  the  American  People,  in  arms,  with  trembling, 
and  recognized  their  victorious  march  to  the  south,  with  niggardly  praise. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  great  national  excitement  of  1846,  this 
transformation  of  a  plain  working  people,  into  a  formidable,  yes,  an  un- 
conquered  army,  struck  the  tyrants  of  the  old  world  with  awe.  The  Man 
who  sits  upon  the  Russian  throne,  worshipped  as  a  God,  and  yet  never 
for  one  moment  secure  from  the  assassin's  steel,  beheld  the  wondrous 
sight,  and  reviewed  his  armies  of  slaves,  with  new  anxiety,  asking  from 
his  satraps  an  explanation  of  that  magic  word — "  THE  PEOPLE  !" 

And  while  the  world  wondered,  the  "  PEOPLE"  of  America  rushed  to 
arms,  and  marched  by  tens  and  twenties,  by  hundreds  and  thousands,  by 
companies,  by  legions,  by  armies,  to  that  golden  land,  which  rose  to  their 
vision,  rich  with  the  grandeur  of  past  ages. 

Standing  on  the  mountain  tops,  the  Crusaders  of  the  Nineteenth  Cen 
tury  beheld  it — that  golden  and  bloody  land  of  Mexico. 

A  land  rich  in  the  productions  of  every  clime,  where  the  fruits  are  more 
luxuriant,  the  flowers  more  rain-bow  like  in  their  dazzling  dies,  the  birds 
more  radiant  in  their  plumage,  than  in  any  other  land  on  the  wide  earth 
of  God.  A  land  where  monuments  arise,  mysterious  and  awful,  with  the 
history  and  religion,  of  those  solemn  ages  which  melt  away  in  the  abyss 
of  time.  A  land,  where  every  stone  bears  some  tokens  of  the  lost  nations 
and  the  dead  people  of  ten  thousand  years. 

A  land,  where  in  the  course  of  forty-eight  hours,  you  can  ascend  from 
the  hot  plains  of  the  tropics,  festering  with  plague,  to  the  mild  clime  of 
eternal  spring,  strewn  with  the  fruits  of  the  temperate  zone  ;  to  the  snow- 
clad  mountains,  frozen  as  with  the  ice  of  the  Polar  waste,  and  with  the 
volcanoes  throbbing  with  their  breasts,  like  hearts  of  fire,  beneath  shrubs 
of  snow  !  A  land,  no  less  beautiful  with  its  flower- framed  lakes,  than 
magnificent  with  its  cathedrals,  with  images  and  shrines  of  solid  gold,  no 
less  gorgeous  with  its  panorama  of  mountain,  pyramid  and  valley,  than 
bewildering  with  its  City  of  Cortes  and  Montezuma,  that  dream  of  gold 
and  blood,  which  men  call — Mexico. 

"  Ho  !  for  the  new  crusade  !" 

Yes,  against  this  land,  so  burdened  with  awful  memories,  the  American 
People,  marched  in  deadly  and  determined  crusade. 

Why  was  this  ? 

Because  the  infant  Texas  had  felt  the  rude  grip  of  Mexican  Massacre  ? 
Because  the  homes  of  that  virgin  soil,  had  been  desolated,  the  men  butch 
ered  and  the  women  dishonored,  by  the  hordes  of  military  chieftains, 
trained  to  kill  from  childhood,  and  eager  to  kill,  for  so  much  per  day  ? 

Why  this  Crusade  ? 

Was  it  because  the  Alamo,  still  cried  out  for  vengeance  ?     That  gt»ry 


]4  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

Alamo  which  one  day,  dripped  on  its  stones  and  flowers  and  grass  with 
the  blood  of  five  hundred  mangled  bodies — the  bodies  of  brave  Texians 
cut  down  by  Mexican  bayonets  and  pierced  by  Mexican  balls,  and  hacked 
by  Mexican  knives  ? 

Why  this  Crusade  ? 

Was  it  because  the  American  People,  having  borne  for  a  series  of  years, 
the  insults  and  outrages  of  Mexican  Military  despots,  and  seen  their  bro 
thers  in  Texas,  butchered  like  dogs,  at  last  resolved,  to  bear  insult  and 
outrage  no  longer,  at  last,  determined  to  take  from  the  Tomb  of  Wash 
ington  the  Banner  of  the  Stars,  and  swore  by  his  Ghost,  never  to  stay  their 
efforts,  until  it  floated  over  the  City  of  Mexico  ! 

These  are  some  of  the  reasons  of  this  new  crusade,  but  not  all.  Here 
is  the  truth  of  the  matter — 

From  the  dark  cloud  of  battle  was  stretched  forth  the  hand  of  Almighty 
God,  and  even  from  the  shock  of  carnage,  an  awful  voice  spoke  out :  « I 
speak  to  Man  in  the  thunder  storm,  I  speak  to  him,  in  the  Plague.  Now, 
I  speak  to  him,  in  the  breath  of  war,  and  write  my  lessons  in  the  black 
ness  of  the  battle-field  !' 

Is  this  false  ?  Does  not  Almighty  God,  lead  the  Nations  to  civilization, 
through  the  reeking  Golgothas  of  War  ? 

But  have  a  care,  brave  People  !  The  same  tide  of  war,  that  now  sweeps 
over  the  vallies,  and  mounts  the  pyramids  of  Mexico,  may  roll  back  upon 
your  American  land.  What  Prophet  shall  dare  to  read  the  meaning  of  yon 
der  portentous  Future  ?  While  we  write  our  record  of  the  war,  that  War  is 
still  in  the  hey-day  of  its  tempestuous  career.  The  events  that  we  chron 
icle,  have  not  yet  reached  the  consummation.  They  ripen  into  history, 
even  as  we  write  them  down. 

Strange  and  bewildering  events  ! 

First  we  hear  of  the  Battles  of  the  Wilderness,  those  glorious  struggles 
of  the  desert  and  chapparal,  where  a  few  hardy  Americans  beat  back  and 
trampled  into  duft  the  bravery  arid  chivalry  of  Mexico.  Two  battles, 
fought  on  two  successive  days,  under  a  burning  sun,  the  Americans  fight 
ing  with  the  certainty  of  .Massacre  in  case  of  defeat:  the  Mexicans  look 
ing  forward,  first  to  triumph,  then  to  butchery  1 

Next  comes  thundering  on  our  ears,  the  story  of  a  three  days'  fight, 
fought  by  the  children  of  Washington,  against  walls  and  bars  and  bolts, 
and  legions  of  armed  men,  a  battle  which  for  dogged  perseverance  and 
sullen  courage  has  no  comparison  in  history;  that  glorious  battle  of  the 
city  and  mountain,  which  the  Sierra  Nevada  beheld,  and  Monterey  felt  to 
her  most  sacred  home  !  . 

Then,  another  battle  of  three  days,  fought  amid  the  snows  of  winter, 
on  the  desert  plain,  by  the  Hero  and  his  Crusaders,  against  the  Mexicans 
and  their  leader  :  a  terrible  triumph,  which  drew  more  tears  from  the 


THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR.  15 

eyes  of  orphans  ano*  made  more  widows,  than  any  fight  of  the  entire 
war. 

Linked  with  this  battle,  in  the  same  breath  of  glory,  comes  the  story 
of  the  conquered  fort  and  the  bombarded  city,  and  last  of  all,  the  history 
of  the  bloody  route  when  the  mountains  of  Cerro  Gordo,  could  scarce 
afford  a  hiding  place  to  the  dismayed  leader  of  the  Mexican  legions. — 

Take  it,  all  in  all,  such  a  Crusade  of  a  civilized  People,  against  a  semi- 
barbarous  horde  of  slaves,  has  no  parallel  in  history. 

There  is  a  deeper  reason,  in  all  this,  than  meets  the  superficial  eye. 
Beneath  the  bloody  foam  of  battle,  flows  on,  forever,  the  serene  and  aw 
ful  current  of  Divine  truth. 

Do  you  ask  the  explanation  of  this  mystery  ?  Search  the  history  of 
the  North  American  People,  behold  them  forsake  the  shores  of  Europe, 
and  dare  the  unknown  dangers  of  the  distant  wilderness,  not  for  the  lust 
of  gold  or  power,  but  for  the  sake  of  a  Religion,  a  Home. 

An  Exodus  like  this — the  going  forth  of  the  oppressed  of  all  nations 
to  a  new  world — the  angels  never  saw  before.  All  parts  of  Europe, 
sent  their  heart-wounded,  their  down-trodden  thousands  to  the  wilds 
of  North  America. 

The  German  and  the  Frenchman,  the  Swede  and  the  Irishman,  the 
Scot  and  the  Englishman,  met  in  the  wild,  and  grouped  around  one 
altar — Sacred  to  the  majesty  of  God  and  the  rights  of  man.  From  this 
strangely  mingled  band  of  wanderers,  a  new  People  sprung  into  birth. 

A  vigorous  People,  rugged  as  the  rocks  of  the  wilderness  which 
sheltered  them,  free  as  the  forest  which  gave  them  shade,  bold  as  the 
red  Indian  who  forced  them  to  purchase  every  inch  of  ground,  with  the 
blood  of  human  hearts.  To  this  hardy  People — this  people  created  from 
the  pilgrims  and  wanderers  of  all  nations — this  People  nursed  into  full 
vigor,  by  long  and  bloody  Indian  wars  and  hardened  into  iron,  by  the 
longest  and  bloodiest  war  of  all,  the  Revolution,  to  this  People  of  North 
ern  America,  God  Almighty  has  given  the  destiny  of  the  entire  American 
Continent. 

The  handwriting  of  blood  and  fire,  is  upon  British  America  and  South 
ern  America. 

As  the  Aztec  people,  crumbled  before  the  Spaniard,  so  will  the  mon 
grel  race,  moulded  of  Indian  and  Spanish  blood,  melt  into,  and  be  ruled 
by,  the  Iron  Race  of  the  North. 

You  cannot  deny  it.  You  cannot  avoid  the  solemn  truth,  which  glares 
you  in  the  face. 

God  speaks  it,  from  history,  from  the  events  now  passing  around 
us,  from  every  line  of  the  career  of  the  People,  who  followed  his  smile 
into  the  desert. 

As  the  People  of  the  old  Thirteen  states,  rose  like  one  man,  again? t 
the  Juggernaut  of  government,  the  British  Monarchy,  so  the  serfs  of 


16  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

Canada  will  rise,  trample  the  thing  of  blood  into  dust,  and  in  the  gore  of 
the  battle-field  plant  the  olive  tree  of  peace  and  freedom. 

Thanks  be  to  God,  the  time  comes,  when  Niagara,  will  no  longer  ex 
tend  from  a  free  land  to  a  British  despotism.  Before  many  years  that 
awful  cataract  will  sing  the  anthem  of  a  free  Continent. 

God  Almighty  has  given  the  destiny  of  the  Continent,  into  the  hands 
of  the  free  People  of  the  American  Union. 

Not  the  Anglo-Saxon  race,  for  such  a  race  has  no  existence,  save  in 
the  brains  of  certain  people,  who  talk  frothily  about  immense  nothings. 
You  might  as  well  call  the  American  People,  the  Scandinavian  race,  the 
Celtic  race,  the  Norman  race,  as  to  apply  to  them,  the  empty  phrase, 
Anglo-Saxon.  This  ridiculous  word,  has  been  in  the  mouths  of  grave 
men,  who  should  know  better,  for  years :  it  is  high  time,  that  we  should 
discard  it  for  some  word,  with  a  slight  pretence  to  a  meaning. 

WE  are  no  Anglo-Saxon  People.  No  !  All  Europe  sent  its  exiles 
to  our  shores.  From  all  the  nations  of  Northern  Europe,  we  were  formed. 
Germany  and  Sweden  and  Ireland  and  Scotland  and  Wales  and  Eng 
land,  aye  and  glorious  France,  all  sent  their  oppressed  to  us,  and  we 
grew  into  a  new  race. 

We  are  the  American  People.  Our  lineage  is  from  that  God,  who  bade 
us  go  forth,  from  the  old  world,  and  smiled  us  'into  an  Empire  of  Men. 
Our  destiny  to  possess  this  Continent,  drive  from  it  all  shreds  of  Mon 
archy,  whether  British  or  Spanish  or  Portugese,  and  on  the  wrecks  of 
shattered  empires,  built  the  Altar,  second  to  the  BROTHERHOOD  OF  MAN. 

Then  come  with  me,  and  look  upon  our  Banner  of  the  Stars,  as  it  goes 
in  glory  and  gloom  over  the  Continent,  freedom's  pillar  of  cloud  by  day, 
her  pillar  of  fire  by  night.  Our  fathers  loved  that  Banner  in  the  days  of 
old.  Its  stripes  were  painted  with  the  blood  of  martyrs.  Its  stars  flashed 
through  the  clouds  of  Bunker  Hill  and  Brandywine,  and  Saratoga,  and 
came  shining  out  in  the  cloudless  sky  of  Yorktown.  Let  us  follow  it 
then,  and  bid  God's  blessing  on  it,  as  its  stars  gleam  awfully  through  the 
bloody  mists  of  Mexico. 

Let  us  not  heed  the  miserable  cant  of  the  traitors  among  us,  who  ad 
vise  the  Mexicans  to  give  the  American  soldier  a  bloody  and  hospitable 
grave.  Though  these  traitors  increase  like  vipers  under  a  hot  sun,  though 
they  poison  our  air,  in  the  Senate  and  the  Press,  let  us  pass  them  by,  with 
a  simple  prayer,  that  God  will  be  very  merciful  to  the  pitiful  dastard, 
who — under  the  cloak  of  British  or  Mexican  Sympathy — would  turn 
traitor  to  a  land  like  ours. 

WASHINGTON,  you  all  remember,  sate  in  his  Camp  at  Cambridge,  in 
September,  1775,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  map  of  the  Continent,  his  finger 
laid  upon  Curada,  while  his  unsheathed  sword,  reached  from  Labrador  to 
Patagoria.  In  the  silence  of  night,  even  as  he  planned  the  conquest  of 


THE  CAMP  IN  THE  WILDERNESS.  17 

Canada,  he  recognized  this  great  truth — God  has  given  the  American  Con 
tinent  to  the  free. 

Let  us  follow  then,  the  American  Banner,  and  while  our  souls  are 
awed  by  the  thunder  flash  of  battle  ;  while  the  horrible  world  of  carnage 
with  its  shrieks  and  groans,  its  dead  armies  and  butchered  legions  widens 
and  crimsons  around  us,  let  us  never  for  one  moment  forget,  that  myste 
rious  Symbol  of  our  destiny — THE  UNSHEATHED  SWORD  OF  WASHINGTON 

RESTING  UPON  THE  MAP  OF  THE  NEW  WORLD. 

II.— THE  CAMP  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 

THE  Army  encamped  in  the  wilderness,  a  hamlet  of  white  tents,  gleam 
ing  from  the  gloom  of  the  boundless  prairie,  the  stars  of  midnignt  shining 
serenely  from  the  dark  blue  vault,  that  Banner,  with  its  stars,  its  belts  of 
scarlet  and  snow,  borne  aloft,  like  a  mighty  bird,  by  the  summer  breeze  ! 

Here,  rising  from  the  sod  of  the  prairie,  a  solitary  rock,  glooms  greyly 
through  the  night.  Like  the  fragment  of  some  meteoric  shower,  like  the 
wreck  of  some  Pre-Adamite  world,  like  a  monument,  built  long  ages  ago 
to  the  memory  of  the  heroic  dead,  the  solitary  rock,  glooms  into  the 
sky. 

We  will  stand  near  the  rock,  we  will  lean  upon  its  rugged  front,  and 
gaze  upon  this  strange  sight — the  camp  in  the  wilderness  ! 

Does  not  the  scene  strike  your  heart  with  a  deep  awe  ? 

That  boundless  prairie,  canopied  by  the  midnight  sky,  with  the  hamlet 
of  white  tents  gleaming  like  altars  of  snow  from  the  darkness  !  Far  to 
the  south,  thick  and  dense,  like  a  forest  blasted  in  its  growth,  extends  the 
chaparral  ;  a  wall  of  briers  and  thorns.  Yonder,  on  the  north,  like  a 
silver  clasp,  on  a  robe  of  dark  velvet,  a  small  lake,  shines  from  the  black 
ness  of  the  prairie. 

In  front  of  each  tent,  the  bayonets  gleam,  like  scattered  drops  of  light. 
Here  you  behold  the  cannon,  and  there,  the  war-horses,  crouching  in 
slumber,  on  the  soft  grass  of  the  waste. 

A  silence  like  death  prevails. 

Now  it  is  broken  by  the  voice  of  the  sentinel,  pealing  suddenly  from 
the  camp  of  the  wilderness.  Now,  the  shrill  neigh  of  the  war-steed — now 
the  roar  of  the  ocean,  breaking  on  the  shore,  seven  miles  away,  comes 
like  the  hoarse  whisper  of  a  thousand  men  murmuring  over  the  plain. 
Now,  a  stillness  like  death ;  in  that  encampment  of  two  thousand  brave 
men,  not  a  sound  is  heard. 

Again,  hark  !  The  howl  of  the  jackal,  comes  like  a  funeral  knell  over 
the  waste.  Hideous,  prolonged,  distant,  that  cry  chills  your  heart  with 
dread,  for  it  speaks  of  a  loathsome  beast,  mangling  with  grey  teeth  and 
fangs,  the  cold  face  of  the  battle  dead. 

And  whether  the  Ocean's  roar  comes  like  a  hoarse  whisper,  or  the 

2 


18  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

jackal's  howl  like  a  funeral  knell,  whether  the  cry  of  the  sentinel  breaks 
along  the  air,  or  the  neigh  of  the  war-horse,  quivers  like  a  battle-shout,  or 
whether  a  silence  like  death,  comes  down  upon  the  camp  of  the  wilder 
ness,  still,  yonder,  above  the  central  tent,  floats  and  swells  the  Banner  of 
the  Stars. 

Confess  with  me,  that  the  scene  is  invested  with  a  grandeur  all  its  own. 
Here,  you  behold  no  mountains  rising  from  clustered  vallies,  into  the 
region  of  eternal  silence  and  snow.  Here,  no  undulating  hills,  crowned 
with  the  golden  wheat  or  emerald  corn.  Here,  no  awful  cliffs,  with  a 
narrow  passage,  winding  amid  their  broken  shadows.  Only  a  vast  prairie, 
a  hamlet  of  tents  and  a  midnight  sky  ! 

You  have  seen  Washington  encamped  among  the  wintry  hills  of  Valley 
Forge,  or  amid  the  sublime  cliffs  of  the  Hudson,  or  in  the  centre  of  the 
Brandywine  vallies.  Encircled  by  scenes  like  these,  the  American  Ban 
ner  floated  on  the  air,  into  a  background  of  rocks,  or  mountains,  or  undu 
lating  woods.  But  here,  it  waves  against  the  sky,  alone.  Here,  man — 
with  nothing  to  break  the  awful  monotony  of  the  scene — is  in  truth,  alone 
with  the  earth  and  sky. 

From  the  central  tent  of  the  encampment,  with  the  mountains,  waving 
to  the  air,  a  belt  of  light  streams  far  along  the  sod. 

Ere,  we  enter  that  tent,  and  gaze  upon  the  Man  who  watches  there,  let 
us  remember  these  important  truths  : 

It  is  the  seventh  of  May,  1846. 

This  little  army  of  two  thousand  men,  slumbering  securely  on  the 
boundless  Prairie,  are  surrounded  by  a  Mexican  army  of  some  six  thou 
sand  veteran  soldiers.  Yonder  wall  of  chaparral  is  black  with  their 
faces. 

The  morrow  will  bring  a  battle — and  the  end  of  that  battle  will  be 
Massacre  and  Butchery. 

We  enter  the  central  tent  of  the  Camp  in  the  Wilderness. 

A  solitary  light  burns  there,  on  the  small  table,  overspread  with  charts 
and  papers. 

In  the  far  corner  of  this  home  in  the  wilderness,  with  its  roof  and  walls 
of  fluttering  canvass,  you  behold  military  trunks  piled  in  a  mass.  Around 
the  light  extends  an  open  space  of  grassy  sod. 

Four  men  are  gathered  there,  talking  with  each  other,  in  low,  earnest 
tones. 

The  one  on  the  right,  dressed  in  a  plain  green  frock,  with  a  knife  in 
his  belt  and  a  rifle  in  his  hand,  is  a  Texian  Ranger  :  a  man  of  iron 
frame,  not  so  remarkable  for  his  height  as  for  the  unpretending  resolution, 
written  upon  his  sunburnt  face.  Broad  cheekbones,  an  aqualine  nose, 
thin,  firm  lips,  wide  forehead  and  chesnut  hair,  curling  in  short  locks,  com 
plete  the  picture  of  his  face. 

He  stands  there,  erect  as  the  Red  Indian,  a  fine  specimen  of  an  iron 


THE   CAMP   IN   THE   WILDERNESS.  19 

man,  who  with  but  ten  hunters,  armed  with  rifles,  would  deem  himself  a 
match  for  at  least  an  hundred  disciplined  soldiers. 

Next  to  him,  presenting  a  perfect  contrast,  you  behold  a  tall  young  sol 
dier,  clad  in  the  blue  uniform  of  the  American  dragoon,  his  finely  propor 
tioned  limbs,  narrow  waist,  and  broad  chest,  his  marked  face,  with  hair 
flowing  to  the  shoulders,  and  beard  waving  over  the  breast — both  dark  as 
night — affording  a  picture,  something  like  the  chivalric  crusader  of  the 
olden  time. 

Opposite  the  young  dragoon,  stands  a  man  of  majestic  stature,  and  im 
posing  presence.  His  fine  figure  is  clad  in  the  blue  and  buff  uniform 
which  clings  to  him  like  a  glove  to  the  hand,  with  the  epaulettes  on  the 
shoulder,  the  sword  by  the  side.  His  dark  hair  falls  back  from  his  broad 
forehead,  his  full  eye  sparkles  as  with  the  fire  of  battle.  In  his  deter 
mined  face,  you  may  read  the  lineaments  of  his  great  Ancestor,  an  heroic 
General  of  the  Revolutionary  time. 

The  centre  of  the  group  and  the  object  of  every  eye  ! 

An  old  man.  An  old  man,  not  even  clad  in  the  glitter  and  show  of  a 
uniform,  but  attired  in  the  much-used  frock  coat  of  dark  brown  hues,  grey 
pantaloons,  with  a  wide-brimmed  hat  in  his  hand.  An  old  man,  with  a 
broad  chest,  a  figure  not  more  than  five  feet  nine  inches  in  stature,  a  face, 
bronzed  by  the  sun  and  toil  of  thirty  eight  years  of  battle  service. 

His  form  is  somewhat  broad  and  bulky,  his  face  bronzed  and  seamed 
by  battle  toil,  his  hair  whitened  by  age,  and  yet  there  is  that  about  the  old 
man,  which  interests  your  eye,  and  impresses  your  heart. 

His  face,  in  repose,  seems  only  to  indicate  an  overflowing  good  humor 
and  abundance  of  social  feeling.  But  now  the  full  grey  eye  flashes  wild 
deep  light,  from  beneath  the  strongly  defined  eye  brow,  the  lips — the  lower 
one  slightly  projecting — are  moulded  in  an  expression  of  iron  resolution, 
the  brow  glows  in  every  wrinkle,  with  the  fire  of  Thought. 

Who  are  these  four  men  gathered  at  midnight,  by  the  light  of  the  soli 
tary  candle,  in  this  Tent  of  the  Wilderness  ? 

They  bear  names  which  may  become  famous  before  many  days.  The 
Texian  Ranger,  is  Captain  Walker — the  chivalric  dragoon,  Captain  May — 
the  soldier  of  the  majestic  figure,  Major  Ringgold.  And  the  old  man  in 
the  faded  brown  coat,  with  the  broad  brimmed  hat  in  his  hand,  stands 
there  with  the  lives  of  two  thousand  men  upon  his  heart,  with  the  honor 
of  the  Flag  of  Washington  in  his  hand. 

That  plain  old  man  is  ZACHARY  TAYLOR,  General  of  the  Continental 
Army  — Yes,  let  us  call  this  heroic  band  by  the  name  which  Washington 
made  sacred,  that  name  which  indicates  the  destiny  of  our  arms  and  the 
course  of  our  civilization — CONTINENTAL. 

Can  you  tell  me  the  nature  of  the  thought,  that  stamps  the  old  man's 
brow  ? 

Even  as  you  gaze  in  his  battle-worn  face,  he  starts — he  mutters  an 


20  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

ejaculation  of  surprise.  For  booming  over  the  waste  from  afar,  comes 
that  hoarse  murmur  of  the  Signal  gun.  Yes,  seven  days  ago,  when — with 
Mexicans  swarming  over  plain  and  river — he  left  the  Rio  Grande,  deter 
mined  to  march  to  Point  Isabel,  distant  some  twenty-six  miles,  there  re 
mained  in  the  rude  fort  opposite  Matamoras,  the  veteran  Major  Brown, 
with  only  three  hundred  men. 

•'  When  you  are  attacked,"  said  Zachary  Taylor,  "  send  me  word  by 
your  signal  gun." 

That  signal  gun  has  been  heard  for  the  last  four  days  and  nights.  But 
a  few  hours  ago,  driven  almost  to  frenzy  by  its  sound,  Taylor,  with  his 
men,  left  Point  Isabel,  on  the  sea  shore,  determined  to  march  to  the  rescue 
of  his  brothers  on  the  Rio  Grande — to  march  twenty-six  miles,  through 
that  wilderness  of  chaparral  and  prairie,  swarming  with  the  veteran  armies 
of  Mexico.  Nor  with  armies  alone,  but  darkened  by  the  wild  assassin 
horde  of rancheros. 

And  now,  encamped  for  the  night,  on  the  desert  prairie,  he  hears  once 
more  the  signal  gun,  calling  with  its  thunder  throat  for  aid.  As  he  starts 
with  anxiety,  raising  his  hand  to  his  brow,  let  us  for  ourselves  behold  the 
danger  announced  by  the  Signal  gun. 

Away  to  the  Rio  Grande,  that  stream  which  like  a  huge  serpent  winds 
languidly  to  the  sea.  Away  through  these  wastes,  across  these  dark 
ravines,  away  for  eighteen  miles,  and  look  upon  the  peril  of  the  heroic 
three  hundred. 

Emerging  from  the  shadows  of  the  chaparral,  we  stand  upon  this  rock, 
and  witness  a  wildly  beautiful  scene.  Before  us,  rolling  through  the  dim 
shadows  like  a  waving  belt  of  silver  thrown  down  upon  a  black  mantle, 
gleams  the  Rio  Grande.  Yonder  through  the  gloom,  we  behold  the  roofs 
and  steeples  of  Matamoras  ;  a  town  built  in  a  strange  Moorish  architec 
ture,  embosomed  in  a  country  of  leaves  and  flowers. 

On  this  side  of  the  river,  the  Fort  gleams  through  the  night,  an  immense 
structure  of  earth,  built  by  the  old  General,  when  he  first  displayed  the 
banner  of  the  stars  on  the  Rio  Grande,  and  held  for  the  last  four  days  and 
nights,  by  the  veteran  Brown  and  three  hundred  men,  against  thousands 
of  Mexican  soldiers. 

The  night  is  very  dark  and  still.  The  sky  is  obscured  by  clouds — the 
clouds  of  cannon  smoke  which  for  four  days  and  nights  have  veiled  sun, 
moon,  and  stars. 

Suddenly,  from  the  town,  a  blaze   rushes  into  the  dark  sky.     Is  it  a 
Comet,  with  its  head  of  fire,  and  long  mane  of  flame  ?     It  sweeps  over 
the  dark  pall,  it  lights  the  winding  river  with  a  momentary  glare,  and  then 
hisses  down  into  the  rude  home  of  the  American  soldiers. 
All  is  silent,  dark,  and  dead  again. 

Not  a  sound  from  the  fort.  Its  bastions  half-destroyed,  its  trenches 
filled  with  earth,  its  soldiers  standing  like  spectres,  in  the  shadows,  this 


THE  CAMP  IX  THE  WILDERNESS.  21 

fort  capable  of  containing  six  regiments  of  soldiers,  is  now  silent  as  the 
grave. 

Where  is  the  commander  of  these  men,  where  the  veteran  Brown,  who 
seven  days  ago,  grasped  swarthy-faced  Zachary  by  the  hand,  and  pledged 
himself  to  keep  the  fort  or  die  ? 

Come  !  While  from  the  centre  of  the  Fort,  lashed  to  the  staff,  the 
banner  of  the  Stars  waves  on  the  night,  as  it  has  waved  since  first  it  shone 
over  Rio  Grande — Come  !  Here,  we  will  find  the  first  hero  of  the  fort. 

Behold  him  in  his  couch.  Yes,  a  couch  sheltered  by  a  rude  canopy. — 
Certain  barrels,  support  horizontal  pieces  of  timber,  on  which  sod  and 
clay  is  laid.  In  that  dismal  resting  place,  thus  made,  behold  all  that  re 
mains  of  the  hardy  soldier.  His  brow  wet  with  the  dews  of  mortal 
agony,  he  writhes  there,  protected  by  these  barrels  from  the  bomb-shells, 
which  cut  the  earth  and  agitate  the  air  on  every  side. 

Only  yesterday,  with  his  right  leg,  in  literal  words,  torn  from  his  body 
by  a  shell — only  yesterday,  while  calmly  taking  his  rounds  through  the 
besieged  fort,  he  fell,  and  as  he  writhed  in  pain,  uttered  the  memorable 
words  : 

"  Men  go  to  your  duties  :  stand  by  your  posts :  I  am  but  one  among 
you.'1 

As  we  gaze  upon  him  in  his  agony — dying  here  by  inches,  on  the  shores 
of  Rio  Grande — that  solitary  streak  of  fire  is  followed  by  .another,  and 
another,  until  the  sky  is  alive  with  threads  of  quivering  light.  It  looks 
like  a  battle  fought  in  the  heavens,  by  the  good  and  evil  angels  ;  the  wea 
pons  stars  and  comets. 

The  town,  its  roofs  crowded  with  people,  its  cathedral  towers  looming 
over  all,  comes  forth  gaily  in  the  red  light,  Boom — boom — boom — the 
cannon  shout,  as  they  hurl  the  brazen  balls  through  the  heated  air. 

The  winding  river  glows  and  burns  on  every  wave.  The  fort,  with  its 
battered  walls,  its  disfigured  parapets,  its  three  hundred  solders,  cowering 
for  want  of  ammunition  by  their  voiceless  guns,  stands  out  in  the  glare  of 
that  fierce  cannonade. 

On  either  side  of  the  fort,  from  the  river  shore  to  the  chaparral,  the 
prospect  is  terrible.  The  land  swarms  with  Mexicans.  Their  gay  ap 
parel  of  gilt  buttons,  glittering  spangles,  cloth  of  many  dies,  shines  bril 
liantly  in  the  light.  Here  march  the  disciplined  legions  ;  there  skulks 
the  knifed  and  bearded  Ranchero,  waiting  until  the  fort  is  taken,  that  he 
may  cut  throats,  and  feel  hot  blood  spouting  over  his  hands. 

At  this  moment,  when  the  brave  three  hundred, — these  iron  men,  who, 
since  last  Sabbath  morning  have  stood,  with  but  a  few  soldiers  killed,  the 
incessant  bombardment, — listen  to  the  groans  of  the  mangled  veteran,  and 
behold  the  universe,  blazing  with  light,  the  river  and  the  shore  and  the 
city,  all  black  with  thousands,  waiting  for  the  moment  of  their  fall,  that 
they  may  witness  their  massacre, — at  this  moment,  when  the  "  great  old 


22  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

man,"  Zachary,  is  but  eighteen  miles  away,  waiting  for  morning  light, 
when  with  his  two  thousand,  he  will  cut  his  way  to  the  fort  or  die — at 
this  instant  of  light  and  darkness  and  blood,  the  torch  is  applied  to  the 
cannon,  and  that  signal  gun  calls  to  the  General,  far  over  the  prairie,  and 
with  its  fiery  throat  says,  help  us  or  we  die  ! 

Let  us  see  what  difficulties  intervene  between  the  Cromwell  of  the 
American  Army,  and  the  doomed  fortress  on  the  Rio  Grande. 

Search  the  chaparral — they  gleam  with  bayonets.  Yes,  like  fire  flies 
the  sharp  points  glitter  through  the  gloom.  Look  into  the  ravines — they 
are  black  with  crouching  rancheroes,  grim  fellows,  who  cut  a  throat  to 
give  them  appetite,  and  inflict  a  stab  in  the  back  from  mere  exuberance  of 
animal  spirits. 

For  eighteen  miles  or  more,  which  extend  between  Fort  Brown  and 
{he  Camp  in  the  Wilderness,  the  Mexican  forces — the  regular  veterans, 
who  have  fought  like  wounded  tigers  in  many  a  battle,  and  the  assassin 
hordes  who  follow  the  disciplined  legions,  as  buzzards  flutter  in  the  wake 
of  eagles — the  Mexican  forces  extend  in  terrible  array,  one  immense 
cloud  of  battle,  armed  with  the  thunder  of  cannon,  the  lightning  of  lance 
and  bayonet. 

They  await  the  coming  of  the  Morrow  !  There  will  be  a  royal  time, 
by  the  setting  of  to-morrow's  sun.  Whoop  !  How  the  vultures  will  shriek, 
as  by  its  last  ray,  they  settle  on  the  cold  faces  of  the  battle  dead,  and  pick 
glassy  eyes  from  their  sockets. 

Through  the  dusky  chaparral,  into  the  camp  of  the  Mexican  general ! 
A  splendid  tent,  fluttering  with  curtains  of  silk  and  gold,  and  with  the 
light  of  wax  candles,  streaming  through  its  crevices,  rises  in  the  centre  of 
a  grassy  glade,  near  a  lakelet  of  cool,  clear  water. 
Around  this  tent,  all  is  light,  glitter  and  motion. 

Here  a  tawny  Ranchero  in  his  half  bandit,  half  soldier  uniform  crouches 
on  the  grass,  playing  cards  with  a  soldier  of  the  regular  forces :  yonder 
the  clatter  of  the  drinking  vessel  breaks  on  the  air,  mingled  with  the  sound 
of  footsteps,  rioting  in  the  dance. 

And  all  the  while,  bands  of  music,  fill  the  air  with  a  thunder-chorus  of 
rich  sounds,  or  die  away  through  the  dark  paths  of  the  chaparral,  in  a  low 
deep  murmur,  that  seems  like  a  requiem  for  the  battle-dead. 

And  near  the  lakelet,  towers  the  Marque  of  the  General,  surmounted 
by  the  gay  tri-colored  flag  of  Mexico,  typifying  the  three  predominant 
influences  in  that  golden  and  bloody  clime,  Superstition,  Ignorance, 
Crime. 

Within  the  tent,  seated  on  a  luxuriously  cushioned  chair,  near  a  volup 
tuous  bed,  glistening  with  the  trappings  of  oriental  taste,  you  behold  a 
man  of  warrior  presence,  his  gay  uniform  thrown  open  across  the  breast, 
while  he  holds  the  goblet  of  iced  champaigne  to  his  lips. 

By  his  side,  converses  the  handsome  and  brave  La  Vega,  and  around 


THE   CAMP  IN  THE  WILDERNESS.  23 

extends  a  circle  of  officers,  clad  in  the  most  gaudy  uniforms,  their  eyes 
keeping  time  with  their  lips,  in  the  game  of  careless  mirth. 

The  fragrance  of  tobacco — not  your  miserable  weed,  which  is  called 
Tobacco,  because  it  resembles  a  compound  of  brimstone  and  pitch — but  the 
glorious  tobacco,  from  Cuba,  pervades  the  tent,  with  a  mild  and  delicious 
perfume. 

The  swarthy  faces  of  the  Mexican  officers,  glow  with  calm  satisfaction 
as  the  champaigne  glass  and  the  Havana  cigar,  pass  from  lip  to  lip. 

In  the  camp  of  Zachary  Taylor,  you  behold  nothing  but  a  plain  old 
man,  in  a  brown  coat,  conversing  earnestly  with  three  of  his  bravest  offi 
cers,  on  the  fate  of  to-morrow's  battle  : 

Here,  the  blaze  of  oriental  magnificence  blinds  your  sight,  here  the 
laugh  and  the  song  go  round,  to  the  chorus  of  clattering  glasses  and  ap 
plauding  hands.  In  the  midst  of  all,  sits  the  General  Arista,  that  man 
whom  Santa  Anna  made  a  soldier,  twirling  his  red  mustache,  as  he  presses 
the  delicious  champaigne  to  his  lips. 

Meanwhile  Ringgold,  and  Walker  and  May — three  heroic  men,  each 
the  type  of  a  different  class — have  gone  to  their  quarters  and  the  leader 
of  the  American  army  is  alone. 

Extended  on  the  rude  camp  bed  he  sleeps.  His  form  still  attired  in 
his  plain  apparel,  his  throat  bared,  his  bronzed  face  turned  to  the  light. 
He  slumbers  for  a  few  brief  hours,  in  order  to  gather  strength  for  the 
march  of  the  morrow. 

The  sentinel — a  grim  veteran — paces  slowly  up  and  down  in  front  of 
the  tent. 

Ail  is  silent.  The  distant  roar  of  the  Ocean,  the  howl  of  the  jackal,  the 
neighing  of  steeds,  have  died  away. 

As  the  moon  rises  over  the  distant  horizon,  flinging  the  shadow  of  the 
tents  far  over  the  sod,  a  dark  object  moves  in  the  gloom — advances  imper 
ceptibly  and  is  still  again. 

Is  it  a  jackal  in  search  of  a  dead  body,  or  a  vulture  impatient  for  the 
feast  of  the  morrow  ? 

Still  it  moves  on,  ever  keeping  in  the  shadow.  Moves  on,  while  the 
Sentinel  paces  to  and  fro,  and  the  May  moon  rises  over  the  Camp  in  the 
Wilderness. 

It  approaches  the  tent  of  the  General,  glides  under  the  walls,  and  starts 
stealthy  up  to  his  bed,  and  stands  revealed,  in  the  form  of  a  man  of  some 
sixty  years,  with  a  broad  chest,  tawny  skin,  long  hair,  grizzled  with  age 
and  thick  beard,  descending  to  the  breast  of  a  half-robber  uniform. 

It  is  a  Ranchero.  He  stands  scowling  beside  the  couch  of  the  Gen 
eral,  his  white  teeth,  gleaming  beneath  his  dark  mustache,  while  the  sharp 
knife  quivers  in  his  hand. 

Hark — a  footstep  !  The  sentinel  comes,  passes  the  opening  of  the  tent, 
looks  in,  and  sees  nothing  but  the  bronzed  face  of  the  sleeping  general. 


24  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

For  the  Ranchero  has  sunk  beside  the  couch,  nestling  snake-like  in  the 

shadow. 

The  Sentinel  is  gone,  and  that  dusky  image  of  Assassination,  glooms  once 
more  beside  the  couch,  the  knife  quivering  in  his  hand.  The  bared  throat 
invites  the  blow*  A  muttered  ejaculation  in  barbarous  Spanish,  and  the 
murderer  contemplates  his  victim. — 

An  old  man,  soundly  sleeping,  as  though  God  protected  every  one  of 
his  grey  hairs,  and  reserved  his  large  brain,  for  immortal  deeds. 

One  blow  of  that  knife,  and  the  old  man  is  a  corse,  the  American  army 
deprived  of  its  Mind,  the  Mexicans  secured  forever  from  his  sword. 

Only  one  blow  ?  The  grizzled-haired  Ranchero  raises  the  knife,  mut 
ters  a  prayer,  kisses  a  cross,  and  whirls  the  knife  home,  to  the  victim's 
heart. 

That  brawny  arm,  with  sinews  like  whip  cords  never  failed  of  its  mark, 
never  once,  in  the  perils  of  darkest  battles  ;  why  should  it  now  ? 

And  yet  it  does  !  Hissing  through  the  air,  it  grazes  the  General's  cheek, 
and  cleaves  his  pillow. 

The  face  of  the  Murderer,  is  convulsed  in  every  feature.  As  though 
astonished  by  his  want  of  success,  he  folds  his  hands,  bends,  prays  and 
then  crawls  snake-like  from  the  tent. 

The  knife  was  found  next  morning,  buried  in  the  pillow. — 

Again  that  dim  figure  creeping  through  the  ways  of  the  camp — now 
pausing,  now  looking  like  a  frightened  tortoise  from  a  side,  and  still  cau 
tiously  crawling  on,  he  gains  the  open  prairie,  where  his  steed  waits  for 
him,  with  quivering  nostrils  and  waving  mane. 

And  still  the  moon  arises  and  sheds  its  calm  light  over  the  city  of  tents, 
and  over  the  bronzed  face  of  the  sleeping  old  man.  And  the  sentinel, 
pacing  his  rounds  in  front  of  the  old  General's  tent,  feels  his  senses 
cheered  by  the  perfume  of  wild  flowers ,  feels  the  cool  breeze  from  the 
ocean  upon  his  brow,  feels  the  throb  of  the  fight,  which  is  to  come  on  the 
morrow,  already  palpitate  in  his  veins. 

In  the  dusky  shadow  of  the  chaparral,  a  Ranchero  dismounts  from  his 
steed. 

By  the  light  of  the  moon,  you  may  see  twenty  swarthy  faces,  look 
from  the  covert  in  his  face,  and  the  stalwart  forms  of  the  band,  encircle 
with  a  wall  of  iron-sinewed  chests. 

The  solitary  Ranchero,  whom  we  have  seen,  bending  over  the  couch 
of  Zachary  Taylor,  advances,  and  then  you  hear  these  fierce  whispered 
words,  spoken  in  barbarous  Spanish — 

"  It  is  done  ?"  cries  the  foremost  of  the  band.  "  The  Oath  was  taken 
on  the  Holy  Cross.  We  swore  to  have  the  life  of  the  Invader.  On  you, 
by  lot,  devolved  the  office  of  Executioner.  You  have  done  it.  Yes — 
the  blood  of  the  American  drips  from  your  steel  !" 

But  the  Ranchero  with  grizzled  hair  and  beard  could  not  reply. 


THE   CAMP   IN   THE    WILDERNESS.  25 

Bending  down  among  his  brethren — those  stern  children  of  the  wild — 
he  veiled  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  I  saw  him  in  his  sleep — I  felt  the  blood  tingle  in  my  veins — I  struck 
home  with  the  knife — but  there  was  something  about  the  old  man's  face 
that  turned  its  aim  aside.  I  could  not  kill  him  !  Sworn  to  do  the  deed, 
sworn  upon  the  holy  cross,  to  destroy  the  invader,  I  could  not  strike, him  ! 
There  is  a  Providence  about  the  old  man  !" 

And  as  the  Ranchero — the  bloodiest  of  that  bloody  band — sank  cower 
ing  on  the  sod,  not  ashamed  to  confess,  that  he  was  afraid  to  kill  the 
sleeping  old  man,  the  brothers  of  the  dark  confederacy,  gazed  upon  his 
tawny  face,  in  silent  awe — in  wonder — in  fear — even  as  the  moonlight 
played  with  the  blade  of  his  assassin's  knife. 

In  the  most  fearful  hour  of  battle — that  hour,  when  the  hand  is  weary 
with  slaughter,  and  the  eye  sick  of  seeing  forevermore  wherever  it  turns, 
the  faces  of  dead  men — this  same  Ranchero,  with  the  blood  pouring  from 
his  death-wound,  told  the  strange  story  to  an  American  soldier,  who  knelt 
by  his  side,  and  '  thanked  God,  that  there  was  a  Providence  about  the 
old  man.'  9 

Up  over  the  prairie,  up  over  the  chaparral,  up  over  the  city  and  the 
fort,  rises  the  moon !  The  night  wears  on.  Still,  from  the  fort  yells  the 
shriek  of  the  signal  gun,  and  in  the  plaza  of  Matamoras  gather  the  forlorn 
hope,  who  are  to  storm  the  refuge  of  the  Americans,  and  put  them  all  to 
the  mercy  of  the  assassin's  knife.  The  night  wears  on.  Between  your 
vision  and  the  moon,  the  vulture  flaps  his  wings — from  yonder  thicket 
tlflt  jackal  howls  for  his  dead  man  feast.  The  night  wears  on,  the  moon 
rises,  the  hum  of  a  thousand  insects  makes  the  atmosphere  alive.  The 
Banner  of  the  Stars  still  waves  from  its  staff;  the  Crusaders  still  soundly 
sleep  beneath  its  folds. 

Sleep  on,  brave  men.  To-morrow,  perchance,  for  many  of  you,  a  softer 
couch  will  be  spread  by  skeleton  hands.  Dream  of  your  wives,  your  little 
ones — of  all  that  Heaven  says  to  us  in  the  word — Home.  To-morrow  : 
for  many  of  you,  that  word  will  not  mean  the  pleasant  fireside  of  Penn 
sylvania,  nor  the  quiet  room  of  your  wild-wood  dwelling,  but  merely  a 
dark  chaparral,  a  dead  body,  with  a  Jackal  and  Vulture  as  chief  mourners. 

Pace  your  rounds  brave  sentinel,  with  your  grey  moustache  and  with 
ered  cheek. 

Even  now,  in  your  distant  home,  your  daughter — oh  you  remember  her  ! 
how  beautiful  she  looked,  when  she  pressed  her  warm  lips  to  your  mouth 
and  said,  playing  with  your  hard  hands — Good  bye  ;  God  bless  you 
Father  !  Even  now  in  that  distant  home,  just  a  few  paces  from  the  vil 
lage  path,  where  the  old  sycamore  stands,  your  daughter  comes  to  the 
•window,  and  looking  upon  the  very  moon  which  shines  upon  your  face, 
Prays  God  that  father  may  come  home  again,  and  come  soon  ! 

Pace  on  your  rounds  brave  sentinel,  and  shout  — "  All  is  well !"   What 

3 


26  THE  BATTLES.  OF  TAYLOR. 

matter  if  the  Jackal  echoes  you,  and  the  Buzzard  flaps  its  wings  above 
your  head  ? 

Do  you  know,  brave  soldiers,  that  it  makes  my  heart  feel  sick,  to  go 
among-  your  tents,  at  this  dead  hour  of  the  night,  and  listen  to  the  words 
you  whisper  in  your  dreams  ? 

Home — Wife — Child  !  These  words  are  on  your  lips,  still  you  whis 
per  of  them  all.  Here,  a  beardless  boy  turns  him  over  in  his  sleep,  and 
says  in  one  breath,  the  words,  Mother — Glory  !  A  ghostly  marriage  of  a 
pale  face  with  blue  eyes  and  grey  hair,  with  a  hideous  skull  wreathed 
with  flowers,  those  words  form  together — Mother  and  Glory  ! 

Sleep  on,  stout  old  Zachary,  nor  dream  of  your  Indian  wars,  nor  turn 
your  bronzed  face  from  the  moon,  nor  restlessly  reach  forth  your  hand 
to  grasp  your  sword.  Never  fear  the  morrow.  God  and  Destiny  watch 
over  your  grey  hairs,  and  for  you  bright  words  are  written,  even  upon  the 
battle  cloud,  and  brighter  forms  beckon  you  on,  even  across  the  wilderness 
of  battle  graves ! 


111.,-THE  DEAD   WOMAN  OF  PALO  ALTO. 

AND  so  the  night  passed  in  that  Camp  of  the  Wilderness  ! 

While  it  wears  on,  and  ere  the  morning  dawns,  let  me  lead  you  for  a 
little  while,  from  the  prominent  personages  of  history,  to  those  quiet 
characters,  whose  destiny  is  woven  into  the  fate  of  battles  and  empires, 
like  threads  of  silver  with  a  bloody  shroud.  ^ 

Let  me  tell  you  a  Legend  of  the  war,  a  legend  of  the  new  crusaw. 
Legend  ?  What  mean  you  by  Legend  ?  One  of  those  heart- warm  stories, 
which,  quivering  in  rude  earnest  language  from  the  lips  of  a  spectator  of  a 
battle,  or  the  survivor  of  some  event  of  the  olden  time,  fill  up  the  cold  out 
lines  of  history,  and  clothe  the  skeleton  with  flesh  and  blood,  give  it  eyes 
and  tongue,  force  it  at  once  to  look  into  our  eyes  and  talk  with  us  ! 
Something  like  this,  I  mean  by  the  word  Legend.  So  many  gentle 
men  have  done  me  the  kindness,  to  write  "  Legends"  since  I  began  it,  and 
in  certain  cases,  to  borrow  mine,  without  so  much  as  a  bow  for  common 
courtesy,  that  I  am  forced  to  define  my  position.  "  Legend"  may  mean 
what  you  please,  it  certainly  is  not  a  thing  to  be  stolen  from  the  owner, 
by  all  the  highwaymen  and  footpads  of  literature.  These  gentlemen  meet 
my  Legends  of  the  Revolution  in  the  highway  of  a  book,  or  the  railroad 
of  a  newspaper,  and  on  the  instant  cry,  stand  !  strip  them  of  all  vestiges 
of  the  owner's  name,  and  send  them  forth  to  the  world  again,  as  gipsies 
do  stolen  children,  with  their  faces  marked  and  a  new  name.  May  I  be 
permitted  to  ho^e,  that  the  Rancheros  of  literature  will  suffer  to  pass, 
without  robbing  or  maiming,  my  Legends  of  Mexico  ? 

A  legend,  is  a  history  in  its  details  and  delicate  tints,  with  the  bloom 


THE  DEAD   WOMAN    OF   PALO   ALTO.  27 

and  dew  yet  fresh  upon  it,  history  told  to  us,  in  the  language  of  passion, 
of  poetry,  of  home  ! 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  thing  which  generally  passes  for  History, 
is  the  most  impudent,  swaggering  bully,  the  most  graceless  braggart,  the 
most  reckless  equivocator  that  ever  staggered  forth  upon  the  great  stage  of 
the  world. 

He  tells  us  a  vast  deal  of  Kings  and  blood,  Revolutions  and  Battles, 
Murderers  by  wholesale,  but  not  a  word  does  he  say  of  that  Home-life 
of  nations,  which  flows  on,  evermore  the  same,  in  all  ages,  whether  Kings 
cut  one  another's  throats,  or  the  throats  of  their  pitiful  sheep,  the  peo 
ple. 

History,  for  example  draws  you  a  picture  of  a  tall  man  on  Horseback, 
with  a  cap  and  sword  and  feather,  and  calls  it  Washington,  but  what  does 
History  say  of  Washington,  the  Man,  in  his  home,  with  the  arms  of  his 
wife  about  his  neck  ;  or  Washington,  the  Man,  in  his  closet,  with  the 
thought  of  his  country's  destiny,  eating  like  a  silent  agony  into  his  great 
soul  ? 

History,  deals  like  a  neophyte  in  the  artist's  life,  in  immense  dashes 
and  vague  scrawls,  and  splashy  colors  :  it  does  not  go  to  work  like  the 
master  painter,  adding  one  delicate  line  to  another,  crowding  one  almost 
imperceptible  beauty  on  another,  until  the  dumb  thing  speaks  and  lives  ! 

History  to  speak  to  the  heart,  should  not  lie  to  us  by  wholesale,  nor 
deal  in  vague  generalities,  which  are  worse  than  robust  lies,  for  they  only 
tell  half  the  truth,  and  leave  the  imagination  to  fill  the  other  half  with  the 
infinite  space  of  falsehood  :  No  !  It  should,  in  narrating  the  records  of  an 
event  or  age,  make  us  live  with  the  people,  fight  by  them  in  battle,  sit 
with  them  at  the  table,  make  love,  hate,  fear  and  triumph  with  them. 
While  it  pictures  the  cabinet  and  field,  it  should  not  forget  the  Home. 
While  it  delineates  the  great  career  of  ambition,  it  should  not  neglect  the 
quiet  but  still  impressive  walk  of  social  life. 

While  it  eloquently  pictures  Washington  the  General  charging  at  the 
head  of  his  legions,  it  should  not  forget  Washington  the  Boy,  in  his  rude 
huntsman's  dress,  struggling  for  his  life,  on  a  miserable  raft,  amid  the 
waves  and  ice  of  the  wintry  flood.  At  the  same  time,  that  it  delineates 
Taylor,  the  Conquerer  of  the  New  Conquest  of  Mexico,  sitting  on  his 
grey  steed,  amid  the  roar  of  battle,  his  grey  eye  blazing  with  the  anger 
and  rapture  of  the  fight,  it  should  remember,  Taylor  the  man,  mingling 
like  a  father  or  brother  with  his  soldiers,  sharing  crust  and  cup  with  them 
and  weeping  the  heroic  tears  of  manhood,  when  disease  or  death,  rends 
them  from  his  side. 

Which  most  touches  your  heart,  Napoleon  the  Emperor,  sharing  the 
imperial  purple,  with  the  doll  of  legitimacy,  Maria  Louisa,  or  Napoleon, 
the  Man,  stealing  to  the  chamber  of  his  divorced  wife,  true-souled  Jose 
phine,  weeping  at  her  feet  and  sealing  his  remorse  with  burning  tears  ? 


28  .  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

Let  us  listen  to  the  Legend  of  the  Dead  Woman  of  Palo  Alto. 

While  in  the  camp  of  the  wilderness,  Zachary  Taylor,  sleeps  the 
ru^ed  sleep  of  warrior  toil ;  yonder,  in  the  almost  oriental  city  Matamoras, 
a  young  girl  in  her  virgin  slumber,  with  her  voluptuous  form,  couched  on 
soft  pillows,  dreams  a  sweet  wild  dream,  amid  the  war  of  battle,  and  hear 
the  ano-el  voices  of  memory,  speak  out,  amid  the  hurricane  of  fiery  shells. 

Amid  all  the  terrors  of  that  fearful  night  she  slept — a  strangely  beauti 
ful  woman,  with  her  loose  white  robe,  gleaming  through  the  intervals  of 
her  long  flowing  raven  hair. 

It  was  a  luxurious  chamber,  paved  with  mosaic  slabs  of  marble,  with  a 
cool  fountain,  bubbling  from  a  bath,  sunken  in  the  centre  of  the  place, 
while  four  slender  pillars  supported  the  ceiling.  Toward  the  river  a 
single  large  window,  with  a  balcony  defended  by  bars — toward  the  gar 
den,  a  wide  doorway,  concealed  by  silken  curtains,  which  tossed  like  a 
banner  to  the  impulse  of  the  night-breeze.  Through  the  doorway,  you 
pass  down  steps  of  cool  marble,  into  garden  all  s'hade  and  bloom, 
fountains  and  flowers.  Around  the  walls,  were  grouped  vases  of  alabaster, 
blooming  with  all  manner  of  rare  and  delicate  plants,  from  the  wild  blos 
soms  of  the  prairie  to  the  gaudy  cactus,  plucked  from  the  steeps  of  dizzy 
cliffs,  or  gathered  from  the  green  spots  of  desert  wastes. 

But  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  all  the  place,  was  the  AVoman  who 
slumbered  there  ! 

Behold  her ! 

A  small  lamp,  suspended  from  the  pillar,  flings  its  rays  over  her  couch  ; 
a  small  bed,  covered  with  folds  of  dark  cloth,  edged  with  gold.  Beholf 
her !  One  of  those  wild,  warm  natures,  born  of  the  tempests  and  sunshine 
of  the  volcanic  south  ;  her  cheek  a  rich,  clear  brown  ;  her  eye-lashes  long 
and  dark ;  her  bosom  full  and  passionate,  her  hair,  flowing  from  the  fore 
head  to  the  waist,  a  shower  of  midnight  tresses,  gleaming  and  darkening 
over  a  robe  of  snow. 

As  she  slumbers  there,  her  cheek  resting  upon  her  left  arm,  you  may  see 
the  dark  brow,  gather  in  a  frown,  the  ripe  warm  lips  compress  with  alter 
nate  fear  and  scorn,  the  bosom,  agitated  at  first  with  a  gentle  motion,  and 
then  rushing  with  one  wild  throb  into  light.  The  loose  white  robe  falls 
aside,  and  you  behold  that  young  breast,  beating  with  violent  emotion. 

She  has  passed  from  the  cool  waters  of  the  bath,  to  the  agitated  slum 
bers  of  the  couch.  A  loose  robe,  flowing  from  the  white  shoulders  to  the 
feet— shoulders  and  feet,  are  naked  and  white  as  marble — encircles  with 
its  easy  folds,  her  young  and  voluptuous  form. 

Let  us  approach  her  couch,  let  us  bend  over  this  sleeping  woman,  and 
listen  to  the  words  which  fall  quivering,  as  though  each  word  was  a  drop 
of  blood,  from  her  young  lips. 

Strange  revelation  !     Even  in  her  sleep  she  tells  the  story  of  her  life. 

Even  while  the  lull  of  the  fountain,  is  heard  in  the  awful  intervals  of 


THE  DEAD  WOMAN  OF  PALO  ALTO.  29 

the  cannonade,  while  the  perfume  of  the  flowers,  mingles  with  the  smell 
of  powder  and  blood,  this  beautiful  child  of  the  South,  in  her  tempestuous 
dream,  beating  gently  her  breast  all  the  while,  with  her  fingers,  reveals  to 
us  the  history  of  her  heart. 

At  first  the  dream  bewilders  us,  with  its  light  and  gloom,  its  pictures 
of  loving  beauty  and  sombre  sublimity. 

We  stand  in  the  shadows  of  the  Cathedral  aisle.  It  is  the  evening 
hour.  The  setting  sun  flings  one  broad  belt  of  light,  over  yonder  altar 
of  solid  silver,  with  the  candelabra  of  gold  above  it,  and  the  balustrade  of 
precious  metals,  extending  on  either  side.  Count  the  wealth  of  a  fairy 
legend,  and  you  have  it  here,  in  this  solemn  cathedral.  And  yonder — 
smiling  sadly  over  all  the  display  of  wealth — stands  the  golden  Image  of 
the  Carpenter's  Son  of  Nazareth,  and  by  his  side,  beams  the  silver  face 
of  his  Divine  Mother.  It  is  an  awful  place,  confounding  us,  by  its  strange, 
almost  gorgeously  grotesque  architecture,  its  mingling  of  the  Aztec  with 
the  Catholic  faith,  its  almost  blasphemous  conjunction  of  Montezuma  and 
Jesus. 

This  Cathedral  of  Mexico,  in  which  we  now  stand,  occupies  the  very 
spot,  where  stood  hundreds  of  years  ago,  the  temple  of  the  bloody  God 
of  Anahuac.  Here,  where  Jesus  smiles,  once  writhed  the  human  sacri 
fice,  with  his  heart  torn  palpitating  from  his  breast. 

But  hold  !  A  vision  breaks  upon  us  now.  Even  as  the  shadows  of 
night  descend,  as  the  deep  serenity  of  this  holy  place,  is  only  broken  by 
the  bustle  of  the  gay  plaza  without,  as  the  everlasting  light,  burns  near 
the  face  of  Jesus — behold  ! 

Two  figures  approach  and  bend  before  the  altar—a  Virgin  in  the  bloom 
of  her  southern  life,  dark  in  eyes,  eyebrows  and  hair,  luxuriant  in  the 
fiery  tinge  of  her  clear  brown  cheeks,  kneels  beside  a  soldier,  dressed  in 
the  costume  of  the  northern  land,  his  chesnut  hair,  curling  round  a 
thoughtful  brow. 

They  kneel  there,  impressive  types  of  widely  contrasted  races — He, 
born  of  the  land  of  Washington,  a  wanderer  from  the  hills  of  Virginia — 
She,  a  voluptuous  daughter  of  the  land  of  the  Aztec,  with  the  old  Cas- 
tilian  blood,  mingling  in  her  veins  with  the  blood  of  Montezuma. 

They  kneel  there ;  the  awful  cathedral  forms  their  marriage  canopy. 
The  Priest  in  his  white  robes,  scatters  from  his  withered  hands,  a  bless 
ing  on  the  strangely  wedded  pair.  He  looks  into  her  face,  his  clear 
hazel  eye,  drinking  those  eyes  of  hers,  which  seem  at  once  to  combine, 
all  that  is  dark  and  bright,  in  the  whole  world. 

But  at  this  moment — we  are  still  in  the  maiden's  dream,  you  will  re 
member — a  footstep  rings  along  the  aisle,  and  a  stern  man,  with  snowy 
hair,  a  bronzed  cheek,  and  a  white  mustache,  strides  slowly  forward,  his 
eye  burning  with  the  wounded  pride  of  an  old  Castilian. 

He  tears  his  child  from  the  embrace  of  her  husband — you  see  a  wo- 


30  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

man's  form  flung  fainting  by  the  altar,  you  see  the  figure  of  the  husband, 
borne  rudely  along  the  aisles  by  mortal  hands,  and  mists  and  darkness 
close  the  strange  sad  vision. 

Yes,  the  maiden's  dream  ends  here — with  the  stern  old  Castilian,  stand 
ing  in  triumphant  scorn,  alone  with  the  affrighted  Priest  and  the  un 
conscious  daughter,  alone  in  that  place  of  religion  and  gold,  the  Cathedral 
of  Mexico.  Even  as  the  mists  close  over  their  forms,  the  light  glitters 
upon  his  uniform  tinselled  with  stars,  and  the  breeze  gently  moves  the 
Avhite  folds  of  her  bridal  dress. 

1  With  the  dream  of  the  past,  the  beautiful  girl,  sleeping  in  this  perfumed 
chamber  of  the  Matamoras  home,  moves  her  round  arms  and  uncloses  her 
dark  eyes.  She  starts  to  her  feet,  with  her  long  hair  showering  half-way 
down  her  voluptuous  form.  She  stands  with  bare  feet  on  the  marble  floor, 
and  presses  her  hand  to  her  forehead. 

"  Only  six  month  ago" — Not  in  English,  but  in  the  rich,  sonorous  Cas 
tilian  she  speaks — "  And  I  knelt  by  his  side,  before  the  Altar  of  the  grand 
Cathedral.  My  father  tore  him  from  my  grasp  ;  this  lover,  this  husband  of 
mine,  rots  in  prison  at  this  very  hour.  And  I — already  married,  must  by 
to-morrow's  light,  wed  another.  Such  is  the  decree  of  my  father  !  Have 
a  care  proud  Castilian  !  The  blood  of  my  mother,  which  flows  in  my 
veins,  the  blood  of  the  Montezumas,  may  foil  you,  even  yet !" 

She  paces  along  the  chamber,  her  white  robe  flowing  to  her  feet.  With 
cue  hand  she  dashes  aside  the  mass  of  dark  hair  from  her  brow,  while 
that  face,  so  passionate  in  its  warm  beauty,  is  softened  in  every  outline 
by  a  sad  and  tender  memory. 

"  Even  yet  I  remember  it !  Recovering  from  my  swoon,  I  clung  to  the 
arm  of  my  father  and  passed  from  the  Cathedral ;  on  the  threshold  a  beg 
gar  girl  started  forward  and  clasped  my  arm.  Even  in  her  rags,  she  was 
beautiful — that  child  of  the  Ltpe.ro*  born  in  the  hut,  and  nourished  into 
bloom,  by  hopeless  misery.  My  father  started — «  She  is  the  very  image 
of  my  daughter— of  Inez  !'  he  whispered.  Meanwhile  that  poor  giii, 
still  clung  to  my  arm,  gazing  in  my  face,  with  her  large  eyes  as  she 
whispered—'  Fear  not  proud  lady  !  For  I  do  not  fear,  I  do  not  despair  ! 
I,  that  have  nothing  but  rags  and  misery,  the  leper's  crust  and  the  leper's 
straw,  do  not  despair,  for  I  am  a  daughter  of  Montezuma .'" 

A  strange  memory  !  The  beggar  girl  of  Mexico  and  the  proud  lady 
Inez-one  in  rags  and  the  other  in  lace  and  gold— and  yet  resembling 
each  other,  like  twin  copies  of  some  beautiful  statue. 

You  should  have  seen  the  proud  elevation  of  this  woman's  form,  as 
with  her  dark  hair,  streaming  over  her  shoulders  and  down  her  back,  she 
exclaimed — 


THE  DEAD  'WOMAN  OF  PALO  ALTO.  31 

"  I,  I,  too  am  a  daughter  of  the  race  of  Montezuma !" 

And  all  the  while,  as  she  paced  along  in  that  place  of  fountains  and 
flowers,  the  thunder  of  the  cannonade,  mingled  with  the  music  of  the 
pattering  fountains,  and  the  smell  of  powder,  choked  the  perfume  of  the 
flpwers. 

"  There  is  no  hope  !" 

Terrible  words,  when  spoken  by  a  beautiful  and  helpless  woman,  com 
muning  with  her  own  heart !  No  hope  !  To-morrow,  Inez  at  once  a 
"Wife  and  Virgin,  would  te  dragged  to  the  altar — perchance  amid  the  roar 
of  battle — and  married  to  a  man,  whom  her  soul  abhorred. 

Even  as  she  spoke,  the  silken  curtain,  which  waved  from  the  window, 
leading  to  the  balcony,  was  thrust  aside,  and  a  strange  form  stood  there, 
framed  in  the  curtain  folds  as  in  a  veil.  It  was  the  form  of  a  young  man, 
attired  in  the  plain  blue  undress  of  an  American  officer,  which  revealed 
every  outline  of  his  slight,  yet  sinewy  frame.  His  face  was  very  pale, 
yet  strongly  featured,  the  white  forehead  encircled  by  clustering  curls,  and 
the  eyes,  gazing  with  deep  and  steady  light,  from  beneath  the  compressed 
brow  ! 

As  silent  as  a  corse,  he  stood,  regarding  the  maiden  with  that  unvarying 
gaze. 

She  sank  on  one  knee,  muttering  a  prayer,  and  invoking  the  name  of 
Mary,  the  Virgin  Mother.  It  was  a  vision  that  she  saw — a  vision  of  the 
ghost  of  her  dead  Husband. 

This  beautiful  woman,  on  her  knee,  the  white  robe  falling  from  her 
shoulders,  and  revealing  half  the  beauty  of  her  bosom — that  silent  figure, 
standing  in  the  window,  his  deep  eye  glaring  from  a  face  pale  as  death, 
formed  together,  with  the  light  and  shadow,  the  fountains  and  flowers,  a 
strangely  impressive  picture. 

Her  senses  fled  from  her,  even  as  the  cross  which  she  clasped,  glided 
from  her  stiffening  fingers. 

When  again  she  looked  up  from  that  death-like  trance,  she  felt  her 
young  bosom  beating  warmly  against  a  manly  heart,  she  felt  the  smile  of 
her  Husband  upon  her  face. 

"  Come  !"  said  the  VIRGINIAN,  speaking  low  in  the  deep  Castilian — 
"  There  is  no  time  for  a  long  story — I  have  dared  death  to  meet  you,  and 
we  must  dare  death  again,  ere  we  escape  from  this  place." 

Girding  her  gently  in  his  arms,— clasping  the  waist,  which  quivered  in 
his  embrace — he  bore  her  through  the  curtain,  and  they  stood  upon  the 
balcony,  with  their  eyes  dazzled  by  a  picture,  at  once  horrible  and 
sublime. 

That  mansion  of  Matamoras,  stood  but  a  short  distance  from  the  river, 
from  which  it  was  separated  by  a  garden,  whose  fountains  sparkled  through 
arcades  of  flowers. 

The  river  wound  before  them,  a  fiery  track  of  light. 


32  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

Yonder  arises  Fort  Brown,  the  Banner  of  the  Stars,  waving  out  in  red 
light,  from  the  background  of  the  midnight  sky.  Around  that  beleagued 
fort,  darkens  the  Mexican  army — you  see  them,  Ranchero  and  Soldier, 
spread  by  thousands  along  the  river  shore. 

But  the  sky  was  the  most  fearful  sight  of  all.  It  was  like  an  immense 
pall,  stretched  over  the  universe,  with  fearful  hieroglyphics  traced  upon  it 
by  the  blaze  of  a  volcano. 

And  the  light  of  the  blazing  sky,  was  thrown  upon  the  face  of  the  beau 
tiful  girl,  who  clung  to  the  breast  of  her  American  husband.  His  pale 
face  glows  with  crimson  ;  her  olive  cheek,  as  with  a  burning  blush  of 
passion.  Even  her  white  robe  and  black  hair,  are  tinted  with  fiery  gleams 
of  scarlet. 

They  stand  upon  the  balcony,  while  the  thunder  of  the  cannon  shakes 
the  earth,  and  the  hoarse  murmur  of  the  Mexican  army,  swells  terribly  in 
each  interval  of  the  night  battle.  That  river,  crowded  with  boats,  that 
shore  darkened  by  legions,  whose  lances  glitter  like  torches  of  flame,  that 
fort,  defended  by  three  hundred  men,  its  banner  waving  on,  through  the 
lightning  of  battle,  it  was  a  sight  to  fire  the  blood,  and  make  the  heart 
leap,  to  mingle  in  the  hurricane. 

"  They  are  there,  my  countrymen — fighting  on,  -when  hope  is  gone  !" 
cried  the  VIRGINIAN,  "  Inez,  you  will  go  with  me  ?  With  me,  over  the 
river,  with  me,  through  the  roar  of  battle,  with  me  into  the  shades  of  the 
chaparral  ?" 

It  was  a  terrible  sight,  that  flashed  before  the  maiden's  eyes,  and  yet 
with  the  warm  blood,  glowing  in  her  cheek,  she  answered, "  I  will !" 

Down,  front  the  balcony,  by  the  ladder  that  quivers  beneath  its  burden, 
down  into  the  shadows  of  the  garden,  she  girded  by  his  arm,  her  snowy 
robe  fluttering  loosely  around  her  queenly  form. 

They  are  lost  to  sight,  but  a  step  resounds  within  the  chamber,  and  an 
old  man  strides  madly  forth  upon  the  balcony,  into  the  light  of  the  can 
nonade. 

Gaze  upon  that  tall  form,  clad  in  the  Mexican  warrior  costume,  green 
faced  with  gold— »upon  that  bronzed  face,  wrinkled  with  age,  the  white 
mustache  covering  the  compressed  lips,  the  eyes  shooting  frenzy  from 
the  lowering  brow,  and  pray  for  the  young  girl  and  her  lover,  her 
husband ! 

The  old  man  stands  upon  the  balcony,  quivering  with  rage,  the  deep 
curses  trembling  from  his  lips.  For  there  is  a  boat  upon  the  river,  a  fra 
gile  skiff,  that  glides  over  the  glowing  waves  bearing  two  forms  to  the  op 
posite  shore — the  young  Virginian  and  his  Mexican  bride  ! 

"  Curses  !  They  near  the  opposite  shore  !  Ha  !  That  shell— it  bursts 
above  their  heads — it  crushes  them  into  the  red  waves  !  A  cloud  of  smoke 
— it  is  gone  !  Curses  !  They  are  there  again,  speeding  toward  the  shore  ! 
May  the  fiend  drive  the  bullet  to  his  heart !  He  leads  forth  from  the 


THE  DEAD  WOMAN  OF  PALO  ALTO.  33 

bashes  by  the  shore,  his  black  steed — they  mount  together — rushing 
through  our  ranks,  he  flies  !" 

And  as  the  old  man,  sent  up  from  the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  a  curse 
upon  his  child,  that  American  on  the  black  horse,  dashed  through  the 
Mexican  ranks,  while  the  white  robe  of  his  bride  floated  over  the  dark 
skin  of  the  steed,  and  wrapped  their  forms  as  in  a  mantle  of  snow. 

"  Huzza  !"  he  cried  in  defiance,  as  the  shot  rained  like  hail  about  his 
horse's  feet — "  Blaze  on  !  I  go  to  the  Camp  of  Taylor,  I  go  to  bring 
succor  for  the  beleagued  fort  1" 

It  is  a  glorious  thing  to  feel  a  battle  steed,  as  black  as  death,  bound  be 
neath  you,  like  a  shell  hurled  from  a  mortar,  it  is  a  glorious  thing  to  see 
the  glare  of  battle,  enfolding  you  like  a  curtain,  to  hear  its  thunder,  yelling 
like  the  earthquake  from  the  volcano's  throat,  but  to  ride  through  the 
fury  of  a  battle,  at  dead  of  night,  a  black  steed  bounding  beneath  you, 
while  a  beautiful  woman  quivers  in  your  arms — it  makes  the  heart  swell 
and  the  blood  burn  like  a  flame  !  •..-.,  i 

Long  upon  the  balcony,  stood  the  old  Mexican  Chieftain,  gazing — «ot 
upon  the  Fort,  which  stood  boldly  out,  in  the  fierce  light  of  the  cannon 
ade,  nor  upon  the  shore  thronged  with  the  legions  of  Mexico,  nor  upon 
the  roof  of  Matamoras,  black  with  spectators  of  the  midnight  battle — but 
upon  the  dark  chaparral,  where  his  eye  had  seen  the  last  flutter  of  his 
daughter's  snowy  robe. 

Did  you  ever  read  of  Montezuma  ? 

Did  you  ever  read  of  that  Monarch,  with  the  olive  cheek,  who  sate 
upon  the  Throne  of  *Tenochtitlan,  three  hundred  years  ago,  the  last  of  a 
long  line  of  kings,  surrounded  by  kneeling  nobles,  and  served  at  the  fes 
tival  table,  by  groups  of  beautiful  women,  dark-eyed  and  passionate 
daughter  of  the  south  ? 

Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  strange  land  of  Anahuac  over  which  he 
reigned,  a  land  magnificent  with  its  mountains  of  snow  and  fire,  its  vallies 
of  fruitfulness  and  bloom,  its  clear,  calm  lakes  mirroring  beautiful  cities, 
its  awful  Religion,  smoking  on  every  altar,  with  human  blood  ? 

How  this  land  fell  beneath  the  Spaniard,  how  the  bloody  Prophet, 
whose  coming  had  been  announced  by  the  Aztec  priests  for  hundreds  of 
years,  came  in  the  person  of  the  stern  bigot,  chivalric  soldier,  Hernan 
Cortes you  have  read  it  all. 

AVhen  the  empire  of  Montezuma  fell,  and  the  sad  emperor,  who  had 
been  conquered  by  Fate,  not  by  man,  yielded  up  the  last  throb  of  her 
broken  heart,  his  blood  still  beat  in  the  veins  of  his  daughters,  who  were 
joined  in  marriage  with  the  proudest  of  the  Castilian  nobility. 


*  Aztec  name  of  the  city  of  Mexico. 
4 


g4  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

It  is  of  some  of  the  descendants  of  these  marriages  of  the  Spaniard 
and  the  Aztec  noble,  that  we  now  purpose  to  speak. 

You  remember  the  horrible  religion  of  old  Mexico  ?  That  creed  of 
blood  which  raised  its  vast  altar  in  every  city,  and  led  its  human  victim, 
to  the  place  of  the  sacrifice,  and  flung  his  quivering  heart,  torn  smok 
ing  from  the  body,  in  the  face  of  its  Devil-God. 

A  creed  in  fact,  which  in  its  atrocious  details,  all  acted,  in  the  name  of 
a  Devil,  almost  rivals  some  of  those  barbarous  corruptions  of  the  Christ 
ian  faith,  whose  bloody  sacrifices  of  human  hearts,  have  been  acted  in 
the  name  of  Jesus  and  of  God. 

}i  You  remember  that  eternal  flame,  which  burned  on  the  altar  of  Monte- 
zuma,  bearing  with  its  clouds  of  white  smoke  and  radiant  light,  a  silent 
testimony  to  the  immortality  of  the  Aztec  faith  ? 

That  flame,  was  first  lighted,  when  the  Ancestors  of  Montezuma, 
hundreds  of  years  before  his  day,  came  swarming  from  the  north,  upon 
the  fertile  valley  of  Mexico.  It  burned  on  for  ages,  until  the  time  of 
Cortes,  when  it  was  supposed  to  be  forever  quenched,  in  the  last  baptism 
of  blood,  offered  by  him  upon  its  altar. 

But  it  was  never  quenched,  that  awful  fire  of  Montezuma !  While  the 
Spaniard,  crowded  Mexico  with  his  legions,  and  built  his  altars  upon  the 
ruins  of  Aztec  Teocalli,  certain  tribes  of  the  old  people,  true  to  their  race 
and  their  religion,  fled  to  the  mountain  and  the  wilderness,  bearing  with 
them,  flaming  torches,  which  had  been  lighted  at  the  eternal  fire. 

That  fire  has  never  once  gone  out,  through  the  long  course  of  three 
hundred  and  twenty-six  years.  It  burns  on  at  the  present  hour,  as  it 
burned  in  the  days  of  Montezuma. 

Where  the  ravine  is  dark  and  horrible,  where  the  mountain  threatens 
you  with  death,  if  you  dare  approach  its  summit  of  eternal  snow,  where 
the  wilderness  extends,  fenced  in  from  civilization  by  impenetrable  thick 
ets,  swarming  with  wild  beasts — there,  may  you  still  discover,  the  eternal 
fire  of  Montezuma. 

Torches,  lighted  at  this  flame,  have  been  brought  forth,  to  the  gaze  of 
the  white  man,  on  certain  occasions,  since  the  conquest  of  Cortes. 

Whenever  danger  to  the  Spaniard,  hovers  in  the  air,  those  torches  are 
seen,  fashing  from  the  tops  of  the  mountains,  from  the  shadows  of  the 
ravine ! 

When  the  Hero-Priest  Hidalgo,— descended  from  the  Aztec  race, — 
raised  the  standard  of  revolt,  and  declared  the  soil  of  Anahuac,  free  from 
European  despotism,  that  torch  blazed  in  the  faces  of  the  Spaniards  and 
lit  them  to  their  bloody  graves. 

It  blazed  again,  ere  the  battle  of  Palo  Alto.  We  will  journey  into  the 
wilderness  and  behold  its  light.  In  the  wilderness  of  Chaparral  and 
prairie,  which  extends  from  the  shores  of  the  Rio  Grande,  there  are  many 
desert  wilds,  scarcely  ever  trodden  by  the  foot  of  the  white  man.  Stunted 


THE  DEAD  WOMAN  OF  PALO  ALTO.          35 

trees,  lacing  their  gnarled  limbs  together,  with  their  trunks  joined  in  one, 
by  thickly  grown  vines,  form  an  impenetrable  barrier,  between  those 
deserts  and  the  step  of  the  civilized  intruder.  Even  the  Ranchero,  that 
combination  of  the  worst  vices  of  civilization  and  barbarism,  dare  not 
profane  these  silent  solitudes. 

On  the  morning  of  the  Eighth  of  May,  1846,  we  will  journey  for  miles 
through  these  impenetrable  thickets,  and  in  the  centre  of  the  wild,  behold 
a  scene,  which  but  a  short  distance  removed  from  the  cities  of  the  white 
race,  is  yet  stamped  with  all  the  traces  of  the  people  of  Montezuma. 

In  the  centre  of  the  wilderness,  a  space  some  two  miles  square,  bloomed 
like  a  garden.  Do  you  see  its  fields  of  tall  green  corn,  waving  yonder, 
near  a  wilderness  of  fig  trees,  rich  with  their  tempting  fruit  ?  Here,  the 
pomegranates  hidden  among  large  green  leaves,  meets  your  eye,  and  there, 
dangling  from  the  vines,  the  grapes  come  quivering  into  light.  Wherever 
you  turn  your  gaze,  all  is  bloom,  verdure,  fruitfulness.  There  are  birds 
of  radiant  plumage  upon  the  trees,  and  flowers,  that  make  you  forget  the 
rainbow  scattered  everywhere  along  the  sod. 

Do  you  distinctly  see  this  garden  in  the  wilderness,  hemmed  in  on 
every  side  by  the  impassable  chaparral  ? 

Gaze  in  its  centre,  and  you  will  behold  a  circle  of  huts,  formed  of  reeds 
woven  together,  like  basket  work,  cemented  with  clay,  and  defended  from 
the  sun  and  rain,  by  a  roof  of  vines  and  blossoms. 

The  tall  corn  waves  greenly  about  them,  and  the  fig  floats  its  perfume 
through  their  narrow  doors,  and  the  meek-eyed  dove  of  the  tropics,  a 
gentle  thing,  looking  like  the  holy  spirit  of  home,  murmurs  its  low  music 
in  the  vines  above  the  roof.  Altogether,  the  quiet  picture,  blooming  under 
the  morning  sun,  in  the  wilderness,  steels  on  us,  like  a  dream  from  Hea 
ven,  a  delicious  leaf,  cut  freshly  from  the  book  of  eternal  beauty. 

Here  dwells  one  of  those  remnants  of  the  Aztec  people,  which  have 
been  hidden  in  the  desert,  from  the  eye  of  the  white  man,  for  three  hun 
dred  years.  You  see  the  dark-faced  men,  with  long  black  hair,  stand 
before  the  doors  of  their  homes — the  tawny  children  playing  among  the 
flowers — the  brown  Women,  with  large  lustrous  eyes,  gathering  the  rich 
fruitage  of  tree  and  field. 

But  the  object  in  the  centre  of  the  desert  village,  that  mass  of  stone, 
piled  up,  rock  on  rock,  until  it  swells  far  over  the  roof  into  the  serene 
upper  air? 

Ascend  those  steps — toil  slowly  up  the  rugged  stairway — stand  upon 
the  summit — gaze  upon  the  village  that  blooms  below  ! 

But  the  fire,  that  burns  upon  the  summit  of  this  mound  of  rocks,  that 
clear  flame,  burning  beneath  the  shelter  of  a  large  flat  stone,  supported 
by  two  masses  of  granite  ? 

This  mound  of  rocks,  is  one  of  the  last  altars  of  the  Aztec  race;  a 


36  THE  BATTLES   OF  TAYLOR. 

TEOCALLI  of  that  faith  of  blood,  which  offered  its  victims  in  the  days  of 
old. 

That  fire,  is  the  sacred  flame,  never  once  extinguished  since  the  days 
of  Montezuma. 

Before  that  fire,  crouching  on  the  rock,  sits  an  old  man,  with  long  black 
hair  floating  down  his  back,  while  a  loose  robe  of  coarse  white  cotton, 
enfolds  his  withered  form. 

The  last  priest  of  Montezuma  ! 

From  early  childhood  he  has  watched  that  fire,  fed  it  with  fragrant 
wood,  and  gazed  upon  its  flames,  as  though  it  was  a  God.  Before  his 
day,  his  father  watched  it ;  when  he  is  gone,  his  son,  tall  and  straight  as 
the  desert  palm,  will  assume  the  sacred  duty.  So  from  age  to  age,  from 
father  to  son,  burns  on  the  flame  of  Montezuma  ! 

Does  not  the  image  of  this  peaceful  people,  dwelling  alone  by  their  rude 
altar,  in  the  wilderness,  never  trodden  by  the  white  man,  gathering  their 
bread  and  attire,  from  the  maize  and  cotton  of  the  field,  their  knowledge 
of  God,  from  the  traditions  of  their  fathers,  at  once  bewilder  and  enchain 
you  ? 

The  day  wears  on — they  have  come  from  the  fields  to  partake  of  their 
simple  meal — the  old  man  still  sits  upon  the  mound,  watching  the  sacred 
flame  ! 

The  day  wears  on  !  Hark  !  From  the  east  a  sound  like  thunder.  It 
is  the  cannon  of  Palo  Alto,  the  old  man  rises,  listens,  and  thinks  it  thunder. 
He  knows  nothing  of  the  wars  or  battles  of  the  white  race. 

The  day  wears  on.  The  sun  is  yonder  in  the  west.  The  mound  of 
rocks  flings  its  shadow  over  the  village.  Still  the  sound  of  thunder  to 
the  east,  thunder,  deep  and  blooming,  from  a  sky,  without  a  cloud. 

The  affrighted  people  of  the  Aztec  village,  throng  to  the  altar,  the 
strong-limbed  men,  the  brown  women  with  the  lustrous  eyes,  the  tawny 
children  scattering  flowers. 

They  seek  to  propitiate  their  God,  by  a  sacrifice.  That  thunder 
from  a  cloudless  sky  terrifies  their  souls.  A  dove,  one  of  those  gentle 
doves  of  home,  is  the  destined  victim.  Look  !  It  flutters  on  the  large 
flat  stone  above  the  flame,  and  murmurs  its  sad  music,  even  as  the  hand 
of  the  priest  is  laid  upon  its  glossy  neck. 

A  prayer  in  the  Mexican  tongue,  a  wild  and  momentous  hymn  to  the 
strange  deity. 

It  is  a  picture  to  remember.  That  solitary  mound  rising  above  the 
hamlet  in  the  wilderness,  its  huge  shadow,  blackening  over  the  fields— 
that  erect  old  man,  upon  the  summit,  the  centre  of  a  crowd  of  dark- 
skinned  worshippers— the  bird  fluttering  in  his  hand,  the  sacramental 
knife  raised  over  his  head. 

At  the  moment  a  cry  quivers  from  every  lip,  and  every  eye  is  turned 
toward  the  east. 


THE  DEAD  WOMAN  OF  PALO  ALTO.  37 

There,  stealing  from  the  forest,  comes  the  form  of  a  woman,  her  dark 
hair  floating  over  her  snowy  robes,  while  her  large  eyes  roll  from  side  to 
side,  with  a  look  of  fear. 

Her  dress  is  torn  by  the  briers  ;  her  hair  tangled  by  the  perfumed  blos 
som  rent  from  the  wild  vine  ;  she  totters  on  toward  the  altar — 

It  is  the  Lady  INEZ,  daughter  of  the  stern  Mexican  General,  wife  of 
the  gallant  Virginian. 

"Within  the  same  hour,  a  scene  of  deep  interest  took  place  on  the  field 
of  PALO  ALTO. 

It  was  in  the  last  hour  of  that  fight — when  the  battle,  which  we  will 
shortly  look  upon  in  all  its  details,  was  about  to  close — that  a  solitary 
Mexican  officer,  flying  from  the  field,  spurred  his  bay  horse  through  the 
devious  path  of  the  chaparral. 

Look  yonder,  and  by  the  light  of  the  solitary  sun,  you  may  behold  his 
pursuer,  a  young  American,  mounted  on  a  dark  steed.  With  the  uniform 
torn  in  ribands  from  his  right  arm,  he  brandishes  his  sword — it  drops 
blood  upon  his  broad  chest — and  dashes  on. 

He  nears  the  Mexican,  he  is  within  twenty  paces,  when  the  flying  sol 
dier  is  about  to  leave  the  path,  and  seek  the  shadows  of  the  chaparral. 
The  American  raises  his  pistol — fires  !  The  bay-horse  totters  to  and  fro, 
and  falls  on  his  forefeet,  precipitating  his  rider  on  the  sod. 

Beside  his  dying  horse — whose  life-blood  wells  from  the  fatal  wound 
—that  rider  stands  and  confronts  the  enemy.  The  American  starts  in 
his  saddle,  and  pulls  his  bridle-rein,  throwing  his  dark  horse,  back  on  his 
haunches,  as  he  beholds  him. 

For  in  that  American  officer  stained  from  head  to  foot  with  blood,  you 
recognize  the  pale  face  and  full  deep  eyes  of  the  VIRGINIAN,  husband  of 
the  Lady  Inez.  Look  upon  that  Mexican,  his  green  uniform  rent  with 
sword  thrusts,  his  white  moustache,  dyed  with  crimson  drops,  his  bronzed 
face  traversed  by  a  fearful  wound,  and  you  behold  her  father. 

Words  of  deep  meaning  were  spoken  there  in  that  lonely  chaparral. 

"  Yield,  General !"  cried  the  VIRGINIAN  in  Spanish.  "  You  are  faint 
with  wounds.  I  will  not  fight  with  the  father  of  my  wife." 

There  was  something  terrible  in  the  silent  malignity  which  shone  from 
the  old  man's  eyes. 

"  You  are  mounted,"  he  quietly  said — "  My  horse  is  dying — "  and  then 
wiping  the  blood  from  his  sword  blade  with  his  left  hand,  grasped  the 
hilt  with  his  right,  and  stood  prepared  for  a  deadly  fight — "  Come!" he  cried 
in  the  settled  tone  of  a  mortal  hatred — "  You  escaped  from  the  prison  of 
Mexico,  but  cannot  escape  me  !" 

It  was  interesting  to  notice  the  conduct  of  that  young  Virginian,  whose 
blue  uniform  was  in  many  places  turned  to  red,  by  the  blood  of  his  foes. 
He  quietly  dismounted,  flung  the  rein  on  the  neck  of  his  dark  steed,  wiped 


38  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

the  battle  sweat  from  his  face,  and  then  struck  the  point  of  his  sword  into 

the  sod. 

He  then  calmly  advanced  along  the  path,  with  the  wall  of  the  chaparral 
on  either  side.  Stern  and  unrelenting,  the  old  General  awaited  him. 

"  General  you  see  me,  unarmed,  defenceless  before  you  !"  said  the 
Virginian  advancing — "  Let  me  ask  you  once  for  all — why  do  you  pursue 
me  with  this  unrelenting  hatred?  I  came  to  your  Mexican  home,  a  stran 
ger  from  the  far  north,  and  was  grateful  for  your  generous  hospitality.  I 
met  your  daughter — we  loved — were  joined  in  marriage  before  the  altar 
of  your  solemn  cathedral.  Why  hurl  me  from  your  daughter's  arms,  into 
a  prison,  only  reserved  for  the  vilest  outcast  ?  Why,  even  as  I  rotted  in 
the  dungeon,  did  you  drag  my  wife  from  the  city,  force  her  to  accompany 
you  in  your  march,  and  last  night  bid  her  prepare,  for  the  miserable  nup 
tials  which  were  to  take  place  to  day?  Come — be  friends  with  me — in 
this  hour,  when  you  are  forced  to  leave  the  field,  a  fugitive,  I  will  aid 
your  flight !" 

There  was  an  earnestness  in  the  young  man's  tone,  that  would  have 
touched  the  hardest  heart.  Frankness  was  written  on  his  pale  face,  and 
honor  spoke  in  the  gleam  of  his  large  hazel  eye. 

"Where  is  my  daughter?"  said  the  Mexican  General,  in  a  low  voice, 
but  still  keeping  his  hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 

"  Last  night,  when  I  bore  the  message  of  Fort  Brown,  to  our  General 
— that  message  which  called  for  help,  in  direst  extremity — I  left  Inez  in  a 
ranche  (farm  house)  some  few  hundred  yards  to  the  west  of  this  place. 
When  the  battle  is  over, — I  will  join  her  again." 

"Coward!  You  will  never  join  her  again!  After  I  have  laid  you 
dead  upon  the  sod,  I  myself  will  go  and  bear  your  message  to  my 
daughter."  . 

With  a  ferocious  look  in  his  eye,  the  General  dashed  upon  the  unarmed 
man,  making  a  thrust,  with  all  the  vigor  of  his  right  arm.  To  say  the 
least,  there  was  something  cowardly  in  this  movement,  indeed,  it  looked 
very  much  like  Assassination. 

The  VIRGINIAN  darted  aside,  but  the  sword  passed  between  his  side 
and  his  left  arm,  transfixing  a  piece  of  his  coat. 

As  quick  as  thought  he  turned,  darted  on  the  Mexican — who  had  been 
almost  thrown  on  his  face  by  the  impetus  of  his  ineffectual  thrust — and 
clutched  his  throat  with  a  grasp  of  iron. 

"  This  your  Mexican  chivalry  !     To  stab  an  unarmed  man  !" 

He  shook  him  fiercely  in  that  tightening  grasp— the  General  made  an. 
effort  to  shorten  his  grasp  of  the  sword,  and  use  it  as  a  dagger,  but  the 
blade  fell  from  his  hand—he  sank  backward  on  the  sod,  with  the  knee  of 
the  VIRGINIAN  on  his  breast. 

He  uttered  an  incoherent  groan—his  eyes  began  to  start  from  their 
sockets. 


i 

THE  DEAD   WOMAN    OF  PALO    ALTO.  39 

The  VIRGINIAN,  touched  with  pity  released  his  grasp,  but  seized  the 
fallen  sword. 

"  I  hate  you" — slowly  said  the  Mexican  General,  raising  himself  on 
one  hand,  while  his  face  grew  deathly  pale — "  Not  so  much  because  you 
stole  my  daughter,  as  that  you  are  one  of  the  accursed  race,  whose  des 
tiny  it  is,  to  despoil  our  land,  extinguish  our  name,  annihilate  our  flag !" 

He  tore  open  the  breast  of  his  coat,  and  disclosed  a  mortal  wound, 
which  had  been  killing  him,  slowly,  for  hours. — 

"  If  there  is  one  word,  that  may  express  the  hatred  of  a  dying  man, 
better  than  another,  I  fling  it  in  your  face  and  curse  you  with  that  breath, 
whose  passing,  leaves  my  lips  cold  forever  !" 

There  was  something  so  terrible  in  these  last  words  of  a  dying  man, 
uttered  with  rattling  breath  and  a  pale  face,  deformed  by  hideous  contor 
tions,  that  the  American  soldier  shrunk  from  his  touch,  and  gazed  upon 
him  in  silent  horror. 

He  never  spoke  again,  save  to  murmur,  in  his  Spanish  tongue — 
"  Water  !  Water  !" 

Reaching  forth  his  arms,  he  grasped  the  blade  of  his  sword  which  the 
VIRGINIAN  held — kissed  the  hilt,  and  fell  back,  with  a  torrent  of  blood, 
streaming  from  his  mouth. 

The  VIRGINIAN  turned  to  search  for  water  ;  the  murmuring  of  a  brook 
let  reached  his  ears  ;  he  left  the  dying  man  and  rushed  along  the  path. 
Turning  to  the  east,  he  saw  the  lakelet,  spreading  calm  and  beautiful  in 
the  depths  of  the  chaparral.  Scarce  a  ray  of  sunlight,  streamed  over  its 
dark  and  tranquil  bosom. 

Our  young  soldier  bent  down,  with  his  helmet  in  his  hand,  its  horse 
hair  plume  sweeping  to  the  ground,  and  filled  it  with  the  cool  water,  when 
another  sight  palsied  his  hand,  and  turned  his  face  to  the  color  of  ashes 
and  clay. 

Before  him,  in  a  nook  formed  by  the  foliage,  on  the  soft,  short  grass, 
lay  the  dead  body  of  a  human  being. 

It  was  a  woman,  naked  as  Eve  before  she  fell,  with  the  blood  stream 
ing  from  her  white  bosom.  As  she  lay  there,  her  hair — so  intensely 
dark,  with  a  glossy  richness  almost  every  wave  and  curl — fell  over  her 
arms  and  clotted  in  some  places  with  her  blood,  streamed  in  masses  over 
the  sod. 

Not  a  vestage  of  apparel  was  there,  upon  her  form,  to  denote  her  rank, 
or  enable  the  living  to  identify  the  beautiful  dead. 

For  she  was  very  beautiful.  Had  you  seen  the  matchless  outline  of 
her  young  limbs,  chaste  yet  voluptuous,  her  bosom,  just  blossoming  into 
bloom,  her  olive  cheek,  which  pillowed  the  dark  eyelashes,  her  lips, 
which  death  had  not  despoiled  of  their  vermillion — you  would  have  knelt 
by  her,  and  gazed  for  hours  upon  the  silent  beauty  of  the  murdered  girl. 


4Q  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

Murdered?     By  whom  ?     Where  the  weapon ?     Where  the  traces  of 

the  wrong  ? 

The  leaves  were  above  her,  the  lakelet  stretched  away  from  her  feet, 
and  the  blood  welled  slowly  from  the  wound  in  her  heart. 

The  Virginian  forgot  the  dying  man,  dashed  his  helmet  away,  and  sank 
beside  the  dead  girl. 

"  Inez  !"  and  bending  down,  he  earnestly  perused  those  features,  sealed 
forever  in  the  sleep  of  death. 

Meanwhile  but  a  few  paces  distant,  the  Mexican  General  started  into  a 
sitting  posture,  with  the  blood  pouring  from  his  mouth,  he  rushed  along 
the  path,  beheld  for  a  moment  the  form  of  the  dead  woman — knew  it,  for 
a  horrible  agony  writhed  over  his  face — and  then  fell  forward  on  his  face 
— dead. 

While1  his  ashy  face,  was  stamped  with  a  despair  that  fast  fevered  into 
madness,  the  VIRGINIAN  looked  from  the  naked  form  to  the  dead  soldier, 
and  murmured — 

"  The  Murderer  and  the  Murdered  !" 

It  was  night  in  the  wilderness  ;  the  groans  of  a  thousand  hearts,  quiv 
ering  in  mental  agony,  palpitated  through  the  chaparral,  from  the  shores 
of  the  Rio  Grande,  to  the  bloody  rivulet  of  Palo  Alto. 

It  was  night  and  through  the  wall  of  woven  thorns,  a  solitary  horse, 
dashed  like  a  shell,  hurled  from  the  blazing  mortar — a  solitary  horse,  his 
nostrils  quivering  as  though  they  shot  forth,  jets  of  flame,  his  dark  hide 
flecked  with  shots  of  foam,  his  bloody  mane,  waving  over  his  eyes  and 
about  his  arching  neck.  Those  eyes  seem  to  burn  in  the  darkness,  like 
the  meteors  of  a  swamp. 

The  Rider  !  Throat  bare,  brow  uncovered,  hair  damp  with  sweat  and 
clotted  with  blood,  he  shook  his  clenched  hands  on  high,  sank  his  spurs 
into  the  flanks  of  the  horse  and  whirled  away.  Ha  !  Ha  !  how  he  shouted 
in  horrible  laughter,  while  the  thorns  tore  his  flesh,  as  though  they  were 
living  things,  poisonous  with  venom,  and  the  gnarled  boughs  struck  his 
breast,  as  though  they  were  the  arms  of  warriors  fired  with  battle  rage. 

The  chaparral  darkened  round  him,  a  wall  of  prickly  pear — the  sod 
beneath  was  broken  into  pits  and  ravines — wherever  he  turned  his  burn 
ing  eyes,  was  nothing  but  that  impassible  desert,  upon  whose  wilderness 
of  stunted  trees,  cold  and  dimly  fell  the  night  of  the  midnight  stars. 

He  was  Mad,  the  brave  Virginian.  You  may  talk  of  hearts,  if  you 
please,  and  of  minds,  steeled  against  the  fiercest  sorrow,  however  vulture- 
like  the  beak,  with  which  it  may  drink  our  heart's  blood,  but  show  me 
the  soul,  that  can  gaze  without  madness,  upon  this  horrible  vision  !  A 
young,  a  virgin  wife,— whose  kiss  was  warm  upon  her  husband's  lips  this 
morning — found  at  the  setting  of  the  sun,  in  the  lonely  chaparral,  the 
blood  oozing  slowly  from  her  mangled  breast,  found  a  naked  and  dishon- 


THE  DEAD  WOMAN  OF  PALO  ALTO.          41 

ored  thing,  the  peerless  beauty  of  her  uncovered  form,  only  making 
her  death  more  horrible  to  look  upon ! 

For  hours  the  young  soldier,  has  thundered  madly  through  the  wild, 
not  caring  whither  his  horse's  footsteps  turned,  gnly  so  that  the  bore  him 
farther  from  the  face  of  man,  farther  into  the  desert,  the  darkness  and  the 
night.  Madly  he  dashed  along,  and  yet  all  the  while,  with  a  conscious 
ness  of  his  horrible  calamity  pervading  his  whole  being,  like  the  forked 
lightning,  quivering  through  the  blackness  of  the  thunder  cloud. 

At  last  after  hours  of  mad  wandering,  he  suffered  the  rein  to  fall  on  the 
neck  of  his  steed,  his  hands  sank  listlessly  by  his  side,  his  head  drooped 
on  his  breast.  The  stupor  had  succeeded  the  frenzy  of  despair. 

Slowly  the  horse  wandered  along,  the  Rider  knew  not,  cared  not 
whither,  while  the  moments  of  that  night  of  agony,  throbbed  slowly  away. 

Hark !  The  Virginian  roused  from  his  stupor,  lifts  his  head  in  won 
der.  A  low,  deep  monotonous  chaunt  breaks  on  the  night.  Look  !  The 
impenetrable  wall  of  chaparral,  gives  place  to  a  field  of  corn,  whose  broad 
green  leaves  wave  above  the  horse's  head. 

At  once,  the  vision  of  a  quiet  group  of  homes  in  the  wilderness,  and  the 
delicious  perfume  of  fruits  and  flowers,  rush  on  the  senses  of  the  bewild 
ered  man.  By  the  light  of  the  stars  he  gazes  wildly  around,  and  suffers 
the  wounded,  the  bleeding  steed  to  take  his  way. 

Through  the  field  of  maize,  by  the  wilderness  of  fig  trees,  among  the 
vines  that  trail  luxuriantly  over  the  ground,  the  horse  wanders  on. 

At  last — what  new  wonder  is  this  ? 

Far  above  the  roofs  of  that  desert-girdled  home,  a  light  shines  like  a 
star,  and  sheds  a  radiance,  at  once  serene  and  vivid  upon  the  air. 

Is  it  a  star,  shining  from  the  midnight  sky  ?  Or,  one  of  those  wild 
lights,  which  born  of  the  atmosphere  of  the  swamp,  bewilder  travellers 
on  their  way,  and  lead  them  on  to  dtath  ? 

His  eye  grows  accustomed  to  the  darkness.  That  light  shines  from 
the  summit  of  a  huge  mound  of  rocks,  and  the  forms  of  human  things, 
intervene  between  the  eye  and  its  steady  blaze. 

Again  that  deep  chaunt,  swelling  through  the  night,  like  a  requiem  over 
the  dead  ! 

The  bewildered  traveller  rushes  forward,  springs  from  his  steed  and 
darts  up  the  rocky  steps  of  the  mound,  his  eye  glaring  madly  all  the 
while,  his  chesnut  hair,  hanging  in  bloody  flakes,  about  his  feverish  brow. 

A  strange  fancy  has  taken  firm  hold  of  his  brain.  He  imagines  him 
self  in  one  of  the  last  retreats  of  the  Aztec  people,  in  that  rude  mound, 
he  sees  a  TEOCALLI,  a  bloody  altar  of  the  far  gone  time  ;  that  flame  is  the 
fire  of  Montezuma  ;  those  forms,  grouped  between  him  and  the  light,  the 
figures  of  the  sacrificial  priests  gloating  over  their  victim's  writhing  form. 

That  victim — oh  !  the  horrible  frenzy  made  his  blood  run  cold,  hot  a? 
it  was  with  the  fever  of  madness — his  own  wife,  the  lady  Inez,  whom  he 

5 


42   '  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

had  left  a  murdered  and  dishonored  thing,  in  the  shadow  of  the  lonely 
chaparral. 

He  ascended  the  mound  of  rocks,  and  stood  with  gasping  breath  upon 
the  Summit.  A  sight  too  wondrous  for  belief  or  words,  met  his  silent 
gaze. 

They  were  Indian  forms  grouped  upon  the  summit  of  the  rock,  men,  with 
stout  arms  and  broad  chests,  women  with  olive  cheeks  and  deeply  lus 
trous  eyes,  children  with  long  black  hair,  about  their  tawny  faces.  In 
dians  did  we  say  ?  No  !  To  the  bewildered  traveller's  eye,  they  looked 
more  like  the  Aztec  people  of  three  hundred  and  twenty  six  years  ago. 
They  stood  in  a  circle,  their  backs  to  his  face,  their  visages  bathed  in  the 
red  light,  which  sheltered  by  a  huge  flat  stone,  shone  through  the  night 
afar. 

Slowly,  on  tip-toe  the  traveller  drew  nigh. 

In  the  midst  of  the  silent  group,  stood  an  old  man,  attired  in  a  loose 
robe  of  coarse  cotton,  gazing  upon  the  object  which  held  every  eye 
enchained. 

Nearer  drew  the  traveller,  his  heart  choking  his  utterance,  or  he  would 
have  groaned. 

What  struck  him  with  surprise,  was  the  universal  expression  which 
reigned  upon  every  face.  Whether  old  man,  or  stout-armed  Son  of  the 
forest,  or  round  limbed  woman,  or  dark  haired  child,  all  wore  one  look. 
It  was  pity,  it  was  sympathy,  it  was  love,  yes,  as  the  angels  love  !  It  was 
religion ! 

Upon  their  rude  faces,  that  look  sat  enthroned  like  a  gem  in  the  dust, 
like  one  serene  ray,  in  a  night  of  universal  cloud. 

Hush  every  breath,  as  the  maddened  traveller,  worried  into  a  fiercer 
agony,  draws  near,  looks  over  their  shoulders,  feels  the  flame  upon  his 
face,  beholds  the  object  which  enchains  every  eye. 

That  chaunt,  swelling  low  and  deep  from  every  lip,  drowned  the  echo 
of  his  step. 

The  sight  that  he  saw— a  bleeding  victim,  disfigured  by  the  knife  !  No ! 

A  sleeping  Woman,  wrapped  in  a  white  robe,  with  her  smiling  face — 
warm  cheeks,  red  lips,  large  lashes,  and  all — framed  in  her  darkly  flow 
ing  hair ! 

And  the  sleeping  Woman,  smiling  in  her  calm  repose,  while  the  tawny 
people,  bent  over  her,  as  though  she  had  dropped  among  them,  from  God, 
was  the  Lady  Inez,  the  wife  whom  we  left  a  murdered  thing  in  the  dark 
ness  of  the  chaparral. 

Softly  she  slumbered,  the  light  of  the  eternal  fire  upon  her  face,  the 
blossoms  gathered  by  little  children's  hands,  wound  among  the  tresses  of 
her  beautiful  hair. 

It  was  a  dream.  Choking  down  the  agony  of  his  soul,  he  darted  for 
ward,  knelt  and  gazed  upon  her. 


THE  DEAD  WOMAN  OF  PALO  ALTO.  43 

With  one  cry,  the  Indians  shrank  back,  from  that  contrast— his  fren 
zied  face,  her  smiling  countenance  ! 

It  was  her  Ghost.  He  knew  it.  Afraid  to  touch  the  hand,  which  lay 
with  its  white  fingers  unclosed,  upon  the  rock,  he  gazed  in  the  stern 
silence  of  despair,  upon  that  image  of  slumbering  womanhood. 

At  last  those  lids  were  unclosed,  those  dark  eyes  met  the  light  of  his 
own,  the  white  robe,  falling  back,  revealed  the  white  shoulders  and  the 
bosom  of  snow.  The  traveller  darted  forward — there  was  a  form  palpi 
tating  upon  his  breast,  a  hand  pillowed  on  his  shoulder,  masses  of  dark 
hair  waving  about  his  face. 

"  MY  HUSBAND  !" 

Was  it  a  Ghost  ? 

That  throb  from  the  virgin  bosom,  kindling  a  heaven  in  his  veins — ah ! 
such  electric  fire,  never  quivered  from  the  breast  of  spirit  or  Ghost 
before  ! 

And  while  the  fire  of  Montezuma  burned  through  the  dark  night,  the 
chaunt  swelled  on  the  air  once  more,  and  the  Aztec  people — I  see  them,  now, 
upon  the  lonely  mound,  their  faces  bathed  in  red  light,  while  all  beyond 
is  darkness — grouped  wandering  round  the  central  figures,  the  Husband 
on  his  knees,  with  his  beautiful  wife  upon  his  breast,  her  dark  hair, 
waving  over  his  shoulder. 

Where  is  the  thread  to  this  mystery  of  the  wilderness  ? 

At  the  setting  of  the  sun,  you  show  us  the  dead  body  of  the  Lady 
Inez,  laid  naked  and  dishonored  in  the  chaparral  of  Palo  Alto,  and  at 
midnight,  we  behold  the  Lady  Inez,  calmly  slumbering,  on  the  mound 
of  the  wilderness,  her  smiling  face,  lighted  by  the  eternal  fire  of  Mon 
tezuma  ? 

— Here  is  all  that  ever  was  known  of  the  dark  history. 

It  was  in  the  last  hour  of  Palo  Alto,  when  the  cannon  of  Taylor,  flamed 
their  lightning  into  the  Mexican  camp,  that  the  beams  of  the  declining 
sun,  stealing  through  the  battle  clouds,  shone  on  the  trappings  and  tinsel 
of  a  gorgeous  canopy,  which  towered  in  the  heart  of  the  dark  chaparral. 

Around  this  tent,  the  banquet  fires  were  blazing,  you  see  them  smok 
ing  and  flaming  beneath  the  luscious  viands,  intended  for  the  feast  of  vic 
tory.  When  Arista  has  conquered  Taylor,  and  bound  him  in  chains,  he 
will  come  hither  in  royal  state,  and  drink  his  iced  wine,  and  feast  on  his 
luxurious  banquet,  while  the  tri-colored  flag  of  Mexico  waves  in  triumph 
over  his  head. 

But  unfortunately  old  Zachary  is  hard  to  conquer.  Even  as  we  look 
upon  the  gaudy  tents,  with  its  ornaments  glittering  like  diamonds  in  the 
light,  we  hear  the  rush  of  Taylor's  legions  to  the  north,  and  the  tramp 
of  the  flying  Mexicans  to  the  south. 

The  lacqueys  have  left  their  banquet  fire ;  the  sentinels  their  place  by 


44  THE   BATTLES   OF  TAYLOR. 

the  tent.  For  a  few  moments,  while  the  tide  of  battle  rages  all  around — 
look  !  how  the  smoke  rolls  yonder,  up  against  the  setting  sun — the  camp 
of  Arista  is  silent  as  the  grave. 

In  a  moment  the  thunder  of  battle  will  envelope  this  place,  in  smoke 
and  flames,  but  ere  that  moment  comes,  we  will  behold  a  sad,  a  touching 
scene. 

Enter  the  tent  of  Arista.  Pass  through  the  gilded  curtains,  and  behold 
the  scene  which  speads  before  you. 

On  the  rich  carpet,  amid  piles  of  scattered  trunks,  masses  of  charts 
and  papers,  heaps  of  plate,  solid  silver  and  gold,  behold  the  kneeling  form 
of  a  young,  a  beautiful  girl.  Attired  in  a  garment  of  richest  dyes,  which 
half-revealing  the  warm  bosom,  girdles  her  slender  waist,  and  terminates 
at  her  knees,  displaying  the  sculptured  proportions  of  her  voluptuous 
limbs,  she  kneels  amid  the  scene  of  splendid  havoc,  clasps  her  hands  and 
raises  her  large  dark  eyes  ! 

While  her  bosom  beats  tumultuously  into  view,  she  prays,  yes,  in  the 
Spanish  and  the  Mexican  tongue,  prays  to  the  God  of  the  Christian  and 
the  God  of  Montezuma. 

There  is  one  portion  of  her  costume,  which  imparts  to  her  face  and 
form,  a  beauty  almost  divine. 

A  veil  of  fine  lace,  like  a  wreath  of  transparent  mist,  as  white  as  snow, 
flows  from  her  forehead  to  her  feet,  with  her  long  dark  hair,  and  her  bare 
arms,  gleaming  through  its  bewitching  folds.  Jewels  worth  many  a  solid 
piece  of  gold,  sink  and  swell  upon  her  breast,  pearls  which  remind  you 
of  a  pure  virgin's  tears,  gleam  in  circlets  from  her  brow. 

While  the  battle  rages  afar,  she  prays,  not  for  herself  but  for  her  lover ! 

Is  it  the  Lady  Inez,  whom  we  behold  ? 

The  same  form  :  the  same  red  ripeness  on  the  lip,  and  voluptuous 
swell  in  the  outline  of  the  form  ;  dark  flowing  hair,  and  large  full  eyes, 
all  the  same ;  it  is  the  Lady  Inez  !  And  yet  we  know,  that  at  this  very 
moment,  the  Lady  Inez,  is  far  away,  in  the  tangled  mazes  of  the  wilder 
ness  ! 

Listen  !  Amid  the  roar  of  the  battle,  thundering  afar,  we  hear  a  foot 
step,  and  presently  the  form  of  a  young  soldier,  remarkable  for  his  manly 
beauty,  appears  at  the  doorway  of  the  tent.  Scarce  twenty  years  old,  a 
dark  mustache  on  lip,  his  bold  features,  relieved  by  long  curls  of  jet-black 
hair,  he  silently  advances,  while  we  behold  his  handsome  uniform,  torn 
in  fragments  and  spotted  with  blood. 

He  stands  behind  her,  contemplating  her  form  with  a  mingled  look- 
pity  and  passion  !  Silently  he  unsheaths  his  dagger,  poises  it  above  her 
head,  turning  his  face  away,  prepares  to  strike — 

"  The  Battle,"  he  cries  in  Spanish,  «  Is  lost  and  I  will  not  leave  you, 
to  the  mercy  of  the  foe  !" 

She  lifts  her  eyes,  and  beholds  at  once  her  lover  and  the  trembling  dag- 


THE  DEAD  WOMAN  OF  PALO  ALTO.          45 

ger.     Her  cheek  does  not  blench,  but  her  bosom  all  at  once,  falls  into 
pulseless  quietude. 

"  Kill,  for  I  am  thine,  Francisco  !"  she  says,  raising  her  eyes,  so  lus 
trously  beautiful  to  his  face.  "  Who  lifted  the  beggar  girl  from  the  hut 
of  the  LEPERO  to  the  couch  of  the  lord  ?  Who  wound  these  pearls  upon  • 
her  forehead,  and  bade  these  jewels  gieam  upon  her  bosom  ?  Who 
shared  with  her,  the  love  of  her  noble  heart  ?  Francisco  !  And  to  who 
should  the  life  of  Mahitili  belong,  but  to  Francisco  ?" 

She  spake  in  the  strange  Mexican  tongue,  which,  the  same  as  fell 
from  the  lips  of  Montezuma,  may  be  heard  at  this  day  in  the  mountains 
of  Mexico. 

"  But  the  battle  is  lost,  Mahitili,"  shrieked  her  lover,  quivering  in 
agony — 

"  For  myself  I  care  not ;  I  will  not  fly ;  to  die  upon  the  lost  field  is 
all  that  is  left  for  me.  But  you  Mahitili — you  my  own  love,  whom  I 
gathered  from  the  huts  of  poverty,  and  wound  to  my  heart — you,  who 
have  not  hesitated  to  watch  by  my  side,  in  the  peril  of  pestilence, 
nor  to  follow  my  footsteps  into  the  crash  of  battle  !  When  I  am  dead 
what  will  be  your  fate?" 

Calmly  she  rose,  and  placed  her  small  fingers  on  the  blade  of  his 
dagger. 

"  We  will  die  together  !"  she  said,  enfolding  him  in  her  arms,  until  her 
snowy  veil,  was  stained  with  the  blood  which  dyed  his  uniform. 

"  To  die,  at  this  hour,  of  all  other  hours  !  To  die,  when  I  have  just 
discovered  that  you  are  no  child  of  poverty  and  shame,  but  the  lost 
daughter  of  our  brave  General  *  *  *  *  !  The  twin-sister  of  his  proud 
and  lovely  child,  with  the  blood  of  Montezuma,  coursing  through  your 
veins  !  Nay  stare  not  so  wildly — it  is  true  as  the  Virgin's  purity  !  From 
a  dying  soldier  on  the  battle  field,  I  heard  the  truth,  and  received  from 
his  hands,  the  undeniable  proofs  !  Kill  you  now — I  cannot — we  will  fly!" 

He  seized  her  to  his  arms,  but  the  robber  form  of  a  Ranchero,  with  his 
wide  sombrero,  and  tawny  face  occupied  the  doorway  of  the  tent.  His 
dark  eyes  shone  with  the  lust  of  plunder  ;  one  hand  upon  his  rifle,  one 
upon  his  knife,  he  silently  confronted  the  youthful  pair. 

"  Here  is  gold — "  cries  Francisco — "  Secure  for  me,  one  of  those  rider 
less  steeds,  now  running  wild  in  the  smoke  of  battle." 

The  Ranchero  clutches  the  purse,  hurries  it  in  his  bosom  and  dis 
appears.  They  wait  there,  in  Arista's  tent,  trembling  with  suspense  and 
watching  for  the  return  of  the  Ranchero.  Mahitili  nestling  close  to  Fran 
cisco's  heart,  like  a  bird  to  its  nest,  in  the  hour  of  storm,  her  white  veil 
and  raven  hair,  encircling  his  form,  as  with  a  robe  of  strange  texture  and 
beauty. 

He  does  not  return,  the  tawny  Ranchero ;  the  battle  swells  nearer  the 


46  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

tent.     Hark  !  That  crash — a  cannon  ball  whizzes  through  the  silken  cur 
taining,  not  an  inch  above  their  heads. 

"  Kneel,  Mahitili !  Kneel  and  pray  to  the  Virgin  until  I  return  1  I  will 
secure  a  horse  or  die  I" 

•  He  is  gone,  but  scarcely  has  his  form  passed  through  the  curtain  folds, 
when  the  Ranchero  stands  before  the  tent,  holding  a  noble  black  horse  by 
the  bridle  rein.  On  his  glossy  hide  smokes  the  blood  and  foam  of 
battle. 

"  Come  !"  exclaims  the  Ranchero,  in  barbarous  Spanish.  "  He  waits 
for  you,  yonder  in  the  chaparral  !" 

Without  a  suspicion,  she  bounds  to  the  saddle,  while  the  Ranchero 
huddles  the  goblet  and  other  vessels  of  silver  and  gold  scattered  along  the 
carpet,  into  a  capacious  sack,  tied  to  his  girdle.  Mahitili  does  not  behold 
this  movement.  Her  eyes  have  no  gaze  but  for  yonder  cloud,  which  gather 
ing  volume,  every  moment,  comes  darkening  over  the  chaparral,  near  and 
nearer  the  tent  of  Arista. 

The  Ranchero,  that  half-savage,  with  the  stalwart  form,  and  bronzed 
face,  leaps  in  the  saddle,  and  girding  the  trembling  girl  to  his  breast,  bounds 
away. 

Away,  into  the  narrow  path,  leading  far  up  the  darkness  of  the  chapar 
ral.  Deeper  the  shadows  gather  them  in,  fainter  and  more  faint,  the  sun 
beams  tremble  over  the  dark  horse,  the  Ranchero,  and  his  voluptuous 
burden. 

"  Francisco  ?"  she  cried  at  last,  quivering  with  an  unknown  fear.  They 
had  turned  a  bend  of  the  path,  and  a  dark  lakelet,  scare  enlivened  by  a 
ray,,  spread  before  them.  "  My  Lover  ?" 

The  Ranchero  surveyed  with  one  gloating  look,  the  warm  beauty  of  her 
face,  and  the  luxuriant  swell  of  her  bosom — 

"  He  is  here  !"  he  said,  and  Mahitili  felt  the  blood  grow  cold,  from  her 
heart  to  her  fingers. 

Not  fifteen  minutes  passed,  and  on  that  sod,  beside  the  dark  lakelet,  the 
MEXICAN  GENERAL,  with  the  blood  pouring  from  his  mouth,  the  VIRGINIAN 
with  his  heart  turning  to  ice  in  his  bosom,  beheld  the  naked  body  of  a 
murdered  and  dishonored  woman. 

There  was  the  print  of  horse's  hoofs  toward  the  lakelet,  and  a  goblet 
of  sculptured  gold,  gleamed  from  the  mire  by  its  waters. 

Francisco  ?  Look  yonder  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  and  behold  a  young 
form,  stretched  stifly  on  the  prairie,  his  face  buried  in  the  sod,  his  arms 
extended,  the  fingers  clutching  the  bloody  grass,  while  the  head  of  a  dead 
steed  rests  upon  his  back  ! 

He  found  the  horse  for  which  he  sought,  it  seems,  and— died  with  him. 
Perchance  in  the  very  act  of  mounting,  for  the  same  cannon  ball,  which 


THE   DEAD  WOMAN    OF   PALO   ALTO.  47 

pierced  the  flanks  of  the  steed,  crushed  the  young  soldier's  chest  into 
mangled  flesh  and  bones. 

And  as  we  look  upon  them,  the  jackal  crawls  from  the  bushes,  and 
snufis  the  air,  turning  from  the  dead  warrior  to  the  dead  steed,  and  from 
dead  steed  to  the  warrior,  as  if  hesitating  where  to  commence  his  horrible 
meal. 

How  came  the  Bride  of  the  VIRGINIA?,-,  the  guest  of  the  rude  Aztec 
people  1 

Alarmed  by  the  thunder  of  the  battle,  she  had  strayed  from  the  Ranche 
where  her  husband  left  her,  lost  her  way,  and  wandered  deeper  into  the 
chaparral  until  the  hidden  village  bloomed  upon  her  eyes.  The  old  priest, 
the  hardy  people,  the  brown  women,  all  hailed  her,  with  her  white  attire, 
and  beautiful  form,  as  a  good  spirit  sent  from  God ;  even  the  little  child 
ren  clung  to  her  robe,  and  looked  up  fearfully  into  her  large  eyes. 

Now,  at  the  dead  of  night  behold  her,  standing  on  that  mound  of  rocks, 
her  husbands  arm  about  her  form,  while  the  sacred  flame  bathes  their  faces, 
and  reveals  the  group  of  wondering  Indians. 

As  we  gaze,  the  old  Priest — who  received  from  his  father  the  tradition 
and  prophecy,  and  who  will  leave  both  to  his  son,  as  a  holy  heritage — 
bends  down  and  lights  a  torch  at  the  flame  of  Montezuma — 

"  There  is  doom  for  the  Spaniard  in  the  air  !"  he  chaunts  as  he  waves 
the  torch — "  Even  as  he  crushed  the  children  of  Anahuac  in  the  days  of 
the  old,  so  will  a  new  race  from  the  north,  crush  his  people,  in  the  dust 
and  blood  of  battle  ! 

"  The  Murder  done  by  the  Spaniard,  returns  to  him  again  ;  and  the 
blood  that  he  once  shed,  rises  from  the  ground,  which  will  not  hide  it, 
and  becomes  a  torrent  to  overflow  his  rule,  his  people,  and  his  altars  ! 

"  Montezuma,  from  the  shadows  of  ages,  hear  the  cry  of  thy  children ! 
Arise !  Gaze  from  the  unclosed  Halls  of  Death,  upon  the  Spaniard's, 
ruin,  and  tell  the  ghosts  to  shout,  as  he  dashes  to  darkness  in  a  whirl 
pool  of  blood : 

"  Montezuma,  and  all  ye  ghosts,  sing  your  song  .of  gladness  now,  and 
let  the  days  of  your  sorrow  be  past !  Even,  above  the  ocean  of  blood, 
which  flows  from  thy  mouth,  over  the  land  of  Anahuac,  behold  the  Dove 
of  Peace,  bearing  her  green  leaves  and  white  blossoms  to  the  children  of 
the  soil !" 


48  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 


IV.-PALO  ALTO. 

AN  old  man,  dressed  in  a  brown  coat,  and  mounted  on  a  grey  horse, 
was  riding  through  the  chaparral,  as  the  noonday  sun  shone  over  the  wil 
derness  of  prickly  pear,  darkening  on  either  side,  while  far  behind,  in  all 
the  windings  of  the  narrow  path,  two  thousand  swords  and  bayonets,  rose 
dazzling  into  light. 

Look  yonder,  and  behold  Zachary  Taylor  and  his  Men,  on  their  march 
to  the  field  of  Palo  Alto  ! 

A  broad  brimmed  hat  of  grey  felt,  shaded  his  ample  brow.  There  was 
no  sword  by  his  side,  but  he  carried  a  spy  glass  in  his  right  hand.  The 
old  grey  steed  which  bore  him  onward,  was  none  of  your  fiery  chargers, 
shooting  jets  of  flame  from  the  quivering  nostril  and  the  dilating  eye. 

An  ancient  and  favorite  horse,  dear  to  the  warrior's  heart,  for  he  had 
borne  him,  through  many  a  bloody  fight,  through  the  everglades  and 
hammocks  of  Florida. 

The  head  of  the  old  man  is  slightly  drooped,  one  hand  placed  within 
the  folds  of  his  vest,  while  the  other  grasps  the  spy  glass.  As  he  rides 
leisurely  onward,  you  might  take  him  for  some  substantial  Pennsylva- 
nian  Farmer,  mounted  on  a  favorite  nag,  but  gaze  beneath  the  shadow  of 
his  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  you  behold  a  Hero's  soul,  stamped  upon  his 
face.  A  bronzed  face,  with  the  under  lip  slightly  projecting,  as  the  upper 
is  pressed  against  the  teeth,  the  brows  drawn  downward,  the  eye  dilating 
until  it  seems  to  burn  ! 

The  old  man  is  thinking  of  Fort  Brown,  and  of  the  few  miles  that  in 
tervene  between  him  and  the  brave  three  hundred  ;  terrible  miles,  swarm 
ing  with  six  thousand  Mexicans. 

As  he  rides  leisurely  there, — alone,  with  his  own  thoughts — you  see, 
gleaming  far  ahead,  the  arms  of  the  advance  ground.  Some  few  paces 
behind,  the  staff  officers,  come  riding  in  their  chivalric  array.  Far  in  the 
distance,  winding  with  every  turn  and  sweep  of  the  road,  the  brave  thou 
sand  soldiers,  with  sword  and  bayonet  blazing  over  their  heads,  come 
flashing  on.  There,  you  behold  the  cannon,  flashing  back  the  sunlight 
from  each  brazen  tube,  there  the  bold  war-horses,  moving  on  with  a  mono 
tonous  tramp,  and  in  the  rear,  the  train  of  two  hundred  waggons  formed 
in  a  solid  square,  announce  that  the  hour  of  battle  is  near« 

And  near  that  train  we  behold  a  sight,  which  for  a  moment  winds  us  from 
the  glitter  of  arms— merely,  a  poor  woman  toiling  painfully  along,  with 
a  babe  in  her  arms.  Her  husband  is  in  the  ranks  ;  she  knows  there  will 
be  a  battle  soon,  and  as  she  comes  along,  with  the  hot  sun  pouring  on  her 
face,  her  tears  fall  slowly,  and  trickle  down  the  face  of  her  sleeping 
babe. 

It  is  a  sight  of  absorbing  interest  that  we  behold.     Two  thousand  men, 


PALO   ALTO.  49 

fainting  under  the  hot  sun,  and  tortured  by  thirst,  which  the  brackish  water 
of  the  prairie  only  maddens,  and  yet  panting  onward  to  the  conflict  with 
six  thousand  foes. 

The  blood  which  flowed  in  the  Revolution,  is  about  to  flow  in  battle 
affain,  for  there  waves  the  plume  of  RIXGGOLD,  the  descendant  of  John 
Cadwallader ;  here  you  behold  the  stern,  heroic  face  of  TWIOGS,  the  Son 
of  the  Hero  of  Georgia  ;  and  in  that  young  man,  CHADBOURNE,  with  the 
soldierly  bearing,  and  eagle  eye,  you  recognise  the  grand-son  of  Revolu 
tionary  LINCOLN. 

The  chivalry  of  the  army  glows  before  you,  from  the  bearded  face  of 
MAY,  and  you  behold  the  backwoodsman  of  the  olden  time,  created  in  the 
sinewing  form  of  CAPTAIN  WALKER.  And  palpitating  with  the  hunger  of 
battle,  the  brave  two  thousand  thunder  through  the  defile,  their  martial 
array, — relieved  on  either  side  by  the  chaparral — resembling  an  immense 
serpent,  as  it  winds  brilliantly  along. 

Meanwhile  the  old  man  Taylor,  mounted  on  his  grey  steed,  rides  alone, 
the  shadows  growing  deeper  over  his  anxious  face. 

Hark  !  A  murmur  quivers  like  an  electric  shock  along  the  line,  as  a 
solitary  horseman,  separating  from  the  advance  guard,  thunders  along,  to 
the  side  of  Taylor, 

"  General,  the  Mexicans  await  us,  in  order  of  battle,  on  the  prairie  of 
Palo  Alto  !" 

You  should  have  seen  the  old  man's  eye  flash  ! 

"  We  must  reach  Fort  Brown  !"  he  said,  in  a  composed  tone,  as  the 
rumor  of  battle  quivered  along  the  line. 

Then  came  the  moment  of  feverish  interest. 

Emerging  in  two  narrow  columns  from  the  chaparral,  our  brave  army 
beheld,  extending  before  them,  the  level  prairie,  three  miles  in  extent, 
bounded  on  all  sides  by  the  prickly  pear  of  the  desert,  over  whose  im 
penetrable  wall  rose  the  wiry  timber,  which  gave  its  name  to  the  immor 
tal  field,  PALO  ALTO. 

It  was  a  glorious  place  for  a  battle  field.  No  hillocks  to  obstruct  the 
view,  no  ravines  for  ambuscade,  no  massive  trees,  to  conceal  the  tube  of 
the  deadly  rifles,  smooth  as  a  floor,  green  with  the  rank  prairie  grass,  in 
some  places,  blooming  in  others  with  flowers  of  delicately  contrasted 
beauty,  it  seemed  the  very  place  for  a  battle,  the  convenient  and  appro 
priate  theatre  fo^  a  scene  of  wholesale  murder. 

Indeed,  the  bronzed  warrior,  Zachary,  in  pursuing  along  the  road  some 
days  ago,  pointed  with  his  sheathed  sword,  to  the  prairie  and  exclaimed 
quietly — "  Not  a  finer  place  in  the  world  for  a  good  fight !" 

Behold  the  battle  field  at  the  moment,  when  the  Americans  emerge 
upon  its  level  plain.  Stand  here,  in  the  chaparral,  our  faces  to  the  east 
and  gaze  with  hushed  breath  upon  the  scene. 

A  wide  plain,  here  rank  with  grass,  there  perfumed  with  flowers,  the 


50  THE  BATTLES   OF  TAYLOR. 

road  winding  through  its  centre,  and  gleaming  with  small  lakes  of  cool, 
fresh  water,  that  break  upon  your  eye,  like  mirrors  of  silver  framed  in 
emerald. 

How  beautifully  the  lakelets  flings  back  the  smile  of  the  cloudless  sky  ! 
In  ten  minutes  they  will  throw  back  sullenly,  the  reflection  of  a  bloody 
and  darkening  heaven. 

Yonder,  in  the  centre  of  the  prairie,  from  the  tall  rank  grass,  gleams  a 
dazzling  line,  a  mile  and  a  half  in  length,  a  line  composed  of  swords, 
lances,  bayonets,  and  marking  by  its  extent,  the  firm  position  and  battle 
resolve  of  six  thousand  Mexicans. 

They  stand  there  in  imposing  array,  the  sunlight  quivering  tremblingly 
on  the  points  of  lance  and  bayonet,  the  cannon  glooming  death  from  every 
dark  muzzle.  Behind  their  ranks  the  prairie  extends,  then  the  chaparral 
and  the  wiry  timber  of  Palo  Alto. 

In 'this  moment  of  breathless  silence,  do  you  hear  distinctly  the  low 
murmur  of  the  half-dried  rivulet  ? 

It  is  upon  this  array  of  six  thousand  veteran  troops,  that  the  two  thou 
sand  Americans  gaze,  as  they  emerge  into  the  plain.  Zachary  Taylor — 
you  see  him  yonder,  the  bronzed-faced  warrior  in  the  brown  coat,  mounted 
on  the  old  gray  horse— gazes  with  a  brightening  eye  on  the  array.  It 
must  be  confessed  that  the  details  are  very  beautiful. 

Far  on  the  right,  advanced  some  distance  in  front  of  the  Mexican  line, 
a  regiment  of  lancers,  in  brilliant  uniforms,  mounted  on  strong-limbed 
battle  steeds,  awaited  in  gorgeous  array,  the  signal  word  of  fight.  Above 
their  heads,  glittering  against  the  sky,  a  forest  of  lancers,  with  a  red  flag, 
waving  from  each  deadly  point  of  steel. 

The  artillery  next  enchains  your  eye ;  then  the  infantry,  an  iron  mass, 
composed  of  muscular  forms,  musquets  and  bayonets,  all  linked  in  one  ; 
then  the  cavalry  again,  and  so  on,  through  the  whole  extent  of  that  brave 
army,  alternate  bodies  of  cavalry,  infantry,  artillery,  or  in  other  words, 
first,  men,  horses,  lances  and  swords  ;  then  men  and  cannon,  then  men 
with  fire  and  steel,  girded  to  their  hearts. 

Yonder  in  the  rear  of  the  centre  of  the  line,  with  his  uniform  burdened 
with  ornaments,  you  see  Arista,  his  white  teeth,  gleaming  below  his  mus 
tache,  as  with  a  smile,  he  sees  rough  Taylor  come.  Around  him,  glitters 
a  brilliant  staff,  and  in  front,  the  tri-color  of  Mexico  rushes  into  the  sky. 

Taylor  beholds  it  all.  "It  is  certainly,  my  object  to  reaah  Fort  Brown," 
he  says  in  his  quiet  way,  «  And  therefore,  the  sooner  w€^ct  about  it,  the 
better." 

The  word  of  command  passes  his  lips.  Look  !  The  army  break  into 
companies,  they  stack  their  arms,  and  calmly  marching  to  the  brink  of 
those  small  lakes,  assuage  their  burning  thirst,  with  copious  draughts  of 
fresh  water.— Drink  brave  men,  and  fill  your  canteens  with  the  clear 
liquid,  for  ere  ten  minutes  are  gone,  that  water,  will  be  red  with  blood  ! 


PALO  ALTO.  51 

As  we  gaze,  they  march  from  the  lakes  into  the  prairie  once  more ; 
refreshed  by  hearty  draughts,  they  spring  to  their  arms,  with  elastic  steps 
and  blazing  eyes,  while  one  thunder  shout,  swells  into  the  sky,  as  bared 
to  the  light,  the  Banner  of  the  Stars,  streams  over  the  field  of  Palo  Alto. 

That  Banner  speaks  to  two  thousand  hearts,  and  speaks  of  far-off 
friends — of  Home — of  Glory — of  WASHINGTON.  Again  that  deafening 
cheer,  and  more  rapidly  goes  on,  the  determined  preparation  for  battle. 

*At  last  the  battle  is  formed  :  history  never  recorded  a  more  beautiful 
array. 

The  American  line,  presents  three  striking  points  ;  RINGGOLD'S  artil 
lery  on  the  right ;  CHURCHILL'S  two  eighteen  pounders  in  the  centre ; 
DUNCAN'S  artillery  on  the  extreme  left — Three  silent  volcanoes  with  the 
lava  of  death,  boiling  in  their  breasts  ! 

Around  these  three  points,  shone  the  glittering  array  of  bayonets.  Each 
cannon  was  relieved  by  the  steady  mass  of  infantry.  It  was  to  be,  so 
old  Taylor  said,  a  fight  with  cannon,  a  deadly  combat  of  whirling  horses, 
brass  and  iron,  of  blazing  muzzles  and  hissing  balls ;  the  infantry  and 
cavalry,  had  scarce  a  duty  to  perform,  save  to  stand  still,  defend  the  can 
non,  see  the  battle,  and  feel  the  madness  of  the  fight  blazing  in  their 
veins. 

At  last  the  word  was  given  to  advance  ! 

At  Two  O'clock,  the  very  hour,  when  Washington,  under  as  clear  a 
sky,  came  to  do  battle  at  BRANDYWINE,  did  Zachary  Taylor,  give  the  word 
and  see  his  army  slowly,  steadily  advance,  over  the  prairie  of  PALO  ALTO. 

Any  man  who  has  seen  a  battle,  knows  that  the  shout  of  carnage,  is 
not  half  so  terrible,  as  the  awful  silence  before  the  first  fire.  Then,  as  a 
man  hears  the  beating  of  his  heart,  and  when  the  crushed  grass,  beneath 
his  feet,  seems  to  echo  his  tread  with  a  sound  like  thunder — so  brooding, 
so  intense  is  the  calm  before  the  storm — the  Soldier  sees  Eternity  yawn 
ing  beneath  him,  over  which  he  hangs  suspended  by  a  single  hair. 

Slowly,  steadily  over  the  prairie,  men  and  horses  and  steel  and  ban 
ners  moved  on.  More  clearly  they  began  to  distinguish  the  Mexican 
banner,  to  see  the  hues  of  their  uniforms,  to  note  their  cannon-muzzles 
yawning  Death  into  their  faces.  The  suspense  was  horrible — many  a 


*  Viewed  merely  with  the  eyes  of  military  men,  it  was  a  splendid  plan  of  battle. 
The  RIGHT,  was  formed  in  this  manner  :  The  Fifth  infantry  with  Lieut.  Col.  Me. 
Intosh  ;  Ringgold  with  his  artillery  ;  the  Third  iniantry  under  command  of  Capt.  L. 
N.  Morris  ;  Lieut.  Churchhill,  with  two  eighteen  pounders,  of  the  Third  artillery  ; 
Fourth  infantry,  commanded  by  Major  G.  W.  Allen  ;  The  THIRD  BRIGADE,  composed 
of  the  Third  and  Fourth  Regiments,  commanded  by  Lieut.  Col.  Garland,  and  two 
squadrons  of  dragoons,  under  command  of  Captain  Ker  and  May.  The  entire  wing 
was  under  the  orders  of  Colonel  TWIGGS. 

THE  LEFT  WING:  a  battalion  of  artillery,  commanded  by  Lieut.  Col.  Childs  ;  Dun 
can's  light  artillery;  eighth  infantry,  Capt.  Montgomery ;  the  whole  forming  the 
First  Brigade,  under  Lieut.  Col.  Belknap.  Captain  Cressman  and  Myers,  were 
entrusted  with  the  train,  which  was  packed  near  the  water. 


52  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

brave  veteran  felt  his  heart  in  his  throat,  and  grasped  his  musquet,  with  a 
hand  clammy  with  cold  dews. 

At  this  moment,  behold  a  deep  worthy  of  the  age  of  chivalry ! 

A  single  horseman,  separates  from  the  American  army,  and  like  a 
thunderbolt  from  a  cloud,  whirls  away,  over  the  plain.  Both  armies  mark 
the  athletic  beauty  of  his  form,  his  horse  with  arching  neck  and  distended 
nostrils,  his  white  plume,  waving  over  a  young  face,  remarkable  for  its 
expression  of  cool  courage.  He  dashes  over  the  plain — the  Americans 
hold  their  breath,  in  suspense,  the  Mexicans  in  wonder. 

Is  he  mad  ?  Rising  in  the  stirrups,  in  view  of  thousands,  he  ap 
proaches  within  one  hundred  and  fifty  yards  of  the  Mexicans,  calmly 
dismounts,  flings  his  arm  on  his  horse's  neck,  and  taking  from  his  pocket 
a  spy  glass,  calmly  surveys  their  terrible  array. 

Dotting  the  sod,  between  the  two  armies,  that  solitary  soldier  and  his 
horse,  form  an  object  of  interest  for  eight  thousand  men. 

He  can  count  their  lances,  their  swords — tell  the  number  of  cannon 
which  they  display — and  as  if  astonished  by  the  calm  composure  of  the 
audacious  soldier,  the  Mexicans  do  not  fire.  One  levelled  musquet,  and 
he  is  dead  !  Presently  you  see,  two  Mexicans  in  their  gaudy  costume, 
dash  from  the  army  and  approach  him. 

The  young  soldier  sees  them  come,  waits  until  he  has  completed  his 
'  reconnoisance',  mounts  his  steed  and  rides— not  directly  back  to  his 
army  again — but  down  in  front  of  their  line,  with  cannon  glooming  and 
bayonets  glittering,  a  wall  of  death  before  him,  rides  with  his  plume 
waving  and  the  shout  of  his  comrades,  breaking  in  his  ears  ! 

Then,  dashing  like  an  arrow,  across  the  plain,  he  approaches  the  Gen 
eral,  and  calmly  tells  him  the  numbers  and  exact  condition  of  the  foe. 
The  old  warrior  smiles,  and  the  army  move  silently  on. 

Little  did  the  gallant  soldier  BLAKE,  in  that  moment  of  excitement, 
dream  of  the  sad  and  singular  fate  which  awaited  him. 

Seven  hundred  yards  now  intervene  between  the  armies.  Take  care  ! 
Do  not  breathe  a  word  !  A  single  whisper  may  scare  the  slumbering 
Death  into  action,  and  send  him  rioting  over  the  field. 

At  this  moment,  when  the  Armies  glare  in  each  other's  faces,  when 
Arista,  with  a  smile  surveys  plain  Zachary's  rough  costume,  when  the 
umbering  wheels  and  monotonous  hoofs  alone  are  heard,  tell  me,  what 
means  this  meet  of  opposing  hosts  on  the  plain  of  Palo  Alto  ? 

Here  the  Americans  in  blue— there  the  Mexicans  in  green— here,  the 
tri-color  of  Anahuac,  there  the  Banner  of  the  Stars  !  Here,  the  veterans 
of  Mexican  battles,  tawny  heroes  from  the  terra  caliente,  of  Vera  Cruz, 
and  robust  mountaineers,  from  the  shadows  of  Orizaba,  the  men,  who 
butchered  the  Texans  at  Alamo,  and  the  Rancheroes,  who  will  butcher 
the  wounded  and  strip  the  dead  ere  an  hour  is  gone !  There,  an  untried 
army  of  two  thousand  men,  gathered  from  the  hills  and  vallies  of  Amer- 


PALO  ALTO.  53 

ica,  with  here  and  there,  a  veteran  from  the  fields  of  Poland,  or  a  « grey 
mustache'  from  the  ranks  of  Napoleon  ! 

What  does  it  mean  ? 

It  means  that  the  Sword  of  Washington,  is  about  to  blaze,  in  conquest 
and  civilization  over  the  land  of  Mexico.  It  means  that  one  bloody  battle 
field  will  soon  call  to  another,  until  a  chorus  of  victories,  join  their  cries 
and  shout  to  the  world,  that  the  American  People,  are  in  arms  for  the 
freedom  of  a  Continent.  It  means,  that  to-day,  a  Beginning  to  be  made, 
to  prepare  the  way  for  a  glorious  End.  It  means  that  Kings  and  Tyrants, 
their  panders  and  satelites  have  no  business  on  this  Continent,  It  means, 
that  the  British  had  better  look  to  Montreal,  for  the  day  comes  when  the 
Banner  of  the  Stars  will  crown  its  towers,  that  they  had  better  look  to 
Quebec,  for  the  hour  is  not  far  off,  when  the  tramp  of  American  legions 
will  be  heard  upon  its  rock. 

It  means  that  a  great  Reform,  is  about  to  commence,  a  Reform,  that 
will  blaze  for  awhile  in  the  distance,  then  envelope  the  borders  of  our 
Union,  and  last  of  all,  burn  up  the  evils  which  threaten  our  peace  at 
home  !  So,  whenever  the  sword  of  Washington  waves  in  the  air,  let  us 
follow  its  flashing  with  prayer,  and  shout  Amen  !  as  it  strikes  home. 

For  a  brief  moment,  in  that  awful  suspense,  the  opposing  enemies  re 
garded  each  other,  and  then — but  hold  !  Did  you  ever  see  a  summer 
storm  girdle  the  horizon,  with  its  fantastic  clouds,  and  while  you  watched 
its  sullen  march  up  the  sky,  a  flash  of  lightning  shone,  in  the  far  north, 
and  shot  from  peak  to  peak,  dazzling  away,  until  the  heavens  were  wrapt 
in  a  belt  of  flame  ? 

So  on  the  Right  of  the  Mexican  army  the  contest  began  ;  the  cannon 
flamed  out,  volumes  of  smoke,  rushed  into  the  sky,  and  a  storm  of  ball 
and  grape,  whirled  over  the  American  army,  singing  their  battle-song! 
In  an  instant,  that  flame,  that  smoke,  that  crash,  leapt  along  the  whole 
Mexican  line,  and  the  thunder  and  lightning  of  the  battle-field  were  born. 

Those  columns  of  white  smoke,  mingled  with  belts  of  black  rolled 
slowly  upward,  into  the  serene  sky. 

At  the  same  moment  from  the  centre  of  the  American  line,  two  separate 
volumes  of  fire,  blazed  from  the  eighteen  pounders, — there  was  a  cloud 
in  the  air — and  two  bloody  lanes  were  hewn,  by  the  hurricane  of  iron, 
right  in  the  centre  of  the  Mexican  line  ;  two  lanes  of  mangled  and  dead. 

The  battle  had  indeed  begun — the  smoke  of  the  Mexican  cannon,  and 
the  smoke  of  the  American  battery,  floated  slowly  into  the  sky,  met  in 
the  serene  air,  and  formed  a  bridge  of  cloud,  above  the  heads  of  the  con 
tending  armies. 

Hark  !  The  rumbling  of  wheels,  the  heavy  sound  of  horses  hoofs  beat 
ing  against  the  sod  ! 

From  the  right  of  the  line,  Ringgold  sweeps  into  the  prairie,  at  the 
sam«  moment,  that  Duncan  crushes  its  tall  grass  to  the  left,  and  from 


.- 1  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

either  extremity  of  the  army,  blaze  answers  blaze,  and  cannon  shouts  to 
cannon.  Every  shot  makes  a  lane  of  dead,  every  ball  bears  a  head,  or 
an  arm  away ! 

It  is  now  that  Ringgold  is  terrible.  It  is  now  that  the  fruits  of  long 
years  of  training  are  seen.  It  is  now,  that  these  men  of  his  band,  disci 
plined  by  him,  into  separate  pieces  of  iron,  forming  one  great  machine 
of  battle,  display  their  firm  hearts  and  steady  eyes.  Few  persons,  who 
beheld  the  erect  soldier,  attired  in  his  elegant  uniform,  pacing  along  the 
fashionable  street  of  his  native  city,  can  imagine,  his  appearance  and 
demeanor  now. 

Reined  beside  the  blazing  battery,  his  white  horse,  fixed  as  a  statue, 
to  the  sod,  still  quivers  beneath  him.  Erect  in  the  saddle,  his  muscular 
chest  and  arms,  displayed  by  the  close-fitting  uniform,  whose  rich  dark 
blue  so  well  relieves  his  boldly  featured  countenance,  he  gives  the  word 
of  command  to  his  men,  marks  the  effect  of  the  shot,  with  his  eye,  and 
sees  whole  platoons  of  gay  uniforms  go  down,  in  blood. 

The  revolutionary  blood  of  John  Cadwallader  burns  in  his  veins,  and 
the  fire  of  battle  mounts  his  heart.  Over  his  head  whirls  the  fury  of  the 
Mexican  hurricane — were  those  guns,  aimed  with  half  the  precision  of 
his  own,  his  command  would  be  blasted  into  the  dust,  ere  a  moment.  But 
as  it  is,  from  the  want  of  deadly  skill,  on  the  part  of  the  Mexicans,  their 
terrible  missiles  only  hiss,  in  upper  air. 

As  Ringgold,  erect  on  his  white  horse,  rises  before  us,  a  strong  picture, 
boldly  marked  out,  by  the  blaze  of  battle,  you  behold  a  single  feature  of 
the  infernal  revelry  of  war.  The  common  soldier,  by  his  side,  attired  in 
a  blue  round  jacket,  his  broad  chest,  laid  open  to  the  light  ?  You  behold 
him,  touch  his  cap,  and  stand  motionless,  in  the  act  of  listening  to  the 
words  of  Ringgold.  His  swarthy  face  is  all  attention,  his  honest  brow, 
covered  with  sweat,  assumes  an  appearance  of  thought.  Look !  Ring- 
gold  in  the  energy  of  the  moment  bends  forward  extending  his  hand — and 
at  the  very  instant,  the  soldier  is  torn  in  two,  by  a  combination  of  horrible 
missiles,  which  bear  his  mangled  flesh  away,  whirling  a  bloody  shower 
through  the  air.  That  thing  beneath  the  horse's  feet,iwith  the  head  bent 
back,  until  it  touches  the  heels,  that  mass  of  bloody  flesh,  in  which  face, 
feet  and  brains,  alone  are  distinguishable,  was  only  a  moment  past,  a 
living  man. 

And  from  the  space  between  the  cannon  wheels,  where  she  had  shel 
tered  herself, — her  babe  slumbering  in  her  arms  amid  the  fierce  roar  of 
the  battle — crawls  forth  the  Woman,  whom  we  saw  following  the  army 
not  long  ago,  was  her  husband.  She  placed  the  gory  head  upon  her  lap, 
and  with  her  face  bent  down,  said  not  a  word,  but  wept  in  silence. — 
Ringgold  turned  his  eyes  away,  and  was  not  ashamed  of  tears  !— A  fine, 
matronly  woman,  not  twenty-six  years  old,  with  the  hue  of  vigorous 
health  upon  her  cheeks,  she  had  followed  her  husband,  from  the  desolated 


PALO  ALTO.  55 

fields  of  Ireland,  across  the  ocean,  then  into  the  army  and — now  !  And 
thus,  with  the  bloody  head  upon  her  lap,  she  sat  all  day,  while  the  fight 
whirled  round  her.  At  night,  when  there  was  nothing  but  a  pale  moon, 
shining  over  heaps  of  slaughter,  she  was  still  there,  — upon  her  knee  the 
gory  head,  upon  her  breast  the  slumbering  babe.  Day  came  again,  the 
armies  passed  away,  the  battle  whirled  far  to  the  south — the  Woman,  and 
the  Dead  Man  and  the  Child  were  still  together,  there,  upon  the  field  of 
Palo  Alto. 

Yes,  when  the  jackals  prowled  around  her,  when  the  vulture,  attracted 
by  the  scent  of  the  festering  body,  swept  the  air,  not  one  foot  above  her 
head,  she  still  kept  the  watch,  moving  her  body,  slowly  to  and  fro,  and 
singing  a  wild  Irish  song.  It  was  until  they  came  with  spades  to  hide  the 
hideous  corruption  of  the  field,  that  she  could  be  torn  from  her  loathsome 
burden.  And  as  they  huddled  the  miserable  thing,  into  the  hurried  grave, 
she  was  seen,  taking  her  desolate  way,  across  the  wilderness,  her  babe 
still  clinging  to  her  bosom,  while  that  low-toned,  monotonous  lament  broke 
over  the  dead  silence  of  the  deserted  field. 

To  the  battle  once  more ! 

While  the  cannon  of  RINGGOLD  blaze  on  the  right,  there  is  a  flash  on 
the  far  left,  and  a  roar  from  the  centre  of  the  line.  Slowly  the  eighteen 
pounders,  advance  from  the  centre,  scattering  a  terrible  mass  of  balls,  into 
the  Mexican  array.  Steadily  on  the  left,  DUNCAN,  pours  the  hurricane  of 
iron,  and  sees,  whole  lines  of  men  and  horses,  crushed  into  dust,  ere  the 
battle  flash  of  the  cannon,  leaves  his  face.  Sternly  on  the  right,  RING- 
GOLD,  on  his  war-horse,  pursues  the  work,  whirling  his  bolts  of  flame, 
upon  those  gay  lancers  yonder,  whose  points  of  steel  fluttering  with  crimson 
flags,  cannot  save  them  from  the  death,  which  rends  their  arms,  crushes 
their  skulls,  and  piles  them  up,  in  bleeding  heaps  along  the  sod. 

The  Infantry  stood  in  silent  masses,  the  blood  boiling  in  their  veins  as 
they  gazed  upon  the  clouds  of  the  fight,  into  whose  whirlpool,  they  were 
not  permitted  to  precipitate  their  legions. 

Behold  their  stern  array  ! 

Shoulder  to  shoulder,  their  voiceless  musquets  in  their  grasp,  they  glare 
beneath  their  frontlets  upon  the  battle,  they  mark  the  lanes  of  the  Mex 
ican  dead,  they  force  their  breath  between  the  clenched  teeth,  they  rend 
the  air,  with  shouts. 

And  every  minute,  there  comes  hissing  into  their  ranks  a  shower  of 
grape,  that  bears  a  human  head  away,  over  their  living  heads,  and  en 
tangles  their  immovable  ranks,  with  the  howling  wounded  or  glassy-eyed 
dead.  Aye,  glassy-eyed  !  Of  all  the  horrible  things  in  a  battle,  the  most 
horrible,  is  to  see  the  comrade  by  your  side,  crushed  backward,  by  a  ball, 
which  unroofs  his  skull — only  for  a  single  moment  he  moves  and  all  is 
still—only  for  a  single  moment,  he  rolls  his  glassy  eyes  upon  your  face, 


56  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

as  if  calling  with  that  speechless  agony  for  vengeance,  and  then  there  is 
no  longer  a  man  by  your  side,  but  a  corse  at  your  feet. 

The  battle  now  begins  to  wear  its  most  infernal  beauty  !  These  lines 
of  armed  men,  arrayed  on  the  prairie,  these  volumes  of  flame,  blazing 
from  one  living  wall  to  another,  this  flag  of  three  colors,  and  yonder  ban 
ner  of  the  stars,  seen  only  through  the  intervals  of  rolling  clouds,  these 
piles  of  mangled  and  dead,  with  the  infuriate  and  frenzied  living  trampling 
over  their  faces,  these  sturdy  cannoniers,  stripping  their  bronzed  forms  to 
the  waist,  and  hurling  the  hurricane  into  the  faces  of  their  foe,  without  a 
shout,  the  sky  of  God,  over  all,  smiling  through  the  windows  of  the 
smoke,  upon  the  scene  of  Murder  ! — Ah,  there  is  in  every  heart,  the  In 
stinct  of  Carnages  and  a  scene  like  this,  would  make  a  Saint  throw  down 
his  cross,  and  seize  a  sword  ! 

In  the  midst  of  the  battle,  on  a  gentle  elevation,  which  commands  the 
prairie,  in  every  foot  of  its  extent,  you  see  Zachary  Taylor,  in  his  brown 
coat,  mounted  on  his  grey  horse,  his  large  eyes,  rolling  rapidly  over  the 
field.  His  broad  chest  swells,  as  though  every  impulse  of  the  fight  hung 
on  his  breath.  You  will  understand  that  the  scene  before  him  is  no 
child's  play.  Defeated,  and  what  will  be  the  fate  of  his  men  ?  Look 
yonder  in  the  thicket,  and  see  the  bearded  Ranchero,  mangling  the 
wounded,  whom  he  has  dragged  from  the  field — whom  he  has  stabbed, 
killed,  stripped — mangling  the  dead  body,  and  carving  its  features  with 
this  gory  knife  ! 

Defeated, — Zachary  Taylor  and  his  men,  will  be  butchered  in  cold 
blood,  their  faces  trampled  into  the  sod  of  the  prairie,  mingled  with  gore. 

Therefore,  the  old  man, — styled,  old,  more  in  reverence  to  his  rough, 
heroic  genius,  in  veneration  of  his  thirty-eight  years  of  service,  than  in 
respect  to  his  years — sits  on  his  familiar  grey  steed,  while  his  aids  in 
their  gallant  military  array,  speed  to  and  fro,  and  the  Cannon  Battle  blazes 
steadily  onward. 

For  two  hours,  from  two  o'clock  until  four,  that  terrible  battle  of  can 
non  thundering  against  cannon,  continued  without  one  moment's  interval 
in  the  steady  work  of  death. 

At  this  moment,  we  will  cross  the  prairie,  and  hurry  towards  the  cen 
tre  of  the  Mexican  army. 

A  magnificent  cavalier,  mounted  on  a  charger  as  white  as  snow,  with 
mane  tossing  to  the  battle  breeze,  is  seen,  the  centre  of  a  brilliant  circle 
of  mounted  officers.  Over  his  countenance,  marked  with  the  traces  of 
courage,  bronzed  by  long  exposure  to  the  fierce  tropical  sun,  and  distin 
guished  by  a  bright  red  mustache,  waves  a  cluster  of  snow  white  plumes. 
His  green  uniform,  faced  with  buff,  is  heavy  with  ornaments  of  gold. 

As  his  proud  horse,  arches  his  neck,  and  in  fiery  eagerness,  to  join  the 
battle,  curvets  over  the  sod,  it  must  be  confessed,  that  the  rider  presents 
an  appearance  at  once,  impressive  and  chivalric. 


PALO  ALTO.  57 

It  is  General  Arista,  in  the  midst  of  his  officers,  watching  the  deadly 
cannonade. 

Among  that  crowd,  glittering  in  brilliant  uniforms,  let  me  ask  you  to 
single  out  one  face,  lowering  in  the  brow  and  unmeaning  in  the  lip  ;  it  is 
the  visage  of  AMPUDIA,  who  boasts  of  having  boiled  the  head  of  a  dead 
enemy*  in  a  cauldron  of  oil.  He  is  very  gaily  attired,  and  his  bay  horse 
is  one  of  the  finest  in  the  world,  yet  it  were  well  for  him,  to  keep  out  of 
the  range  of  the  Texan  rifles,  for  there  is  an  old  account  to  settle,  and  a 
record  of  blood  to  be  blotted  out 

Around  Arista,  the  scene  is  sad  and  touching. 

The  earth  is  crowded  with  mangled  bodies.  Here  a  leg,  there  an  arm, 
yonder  a  head ;  it  is  horrible  but  it  is  true  ;  the  air  quivers  with  death 
groans,  and  amid  the  deep  boom  of  the  cannonade,  you  hear  the  mangled 
Mexican  howl  to  Jesus,  to  God,  to  the  tVirgin  of  Gaudalupe  for  pity  ! 

•'  We  can  never  stand  this,"  exclaims  Arista,  as  a  cannon  ball,  passes 
beneath  his  horse's  hoofs — "  We  must  charge  !  away" — he  shouts  to  an 
aid-de-camp — "  And  tell  General  Torrejon,  to  lead  his  regiment  of  lancers 
against  the  Right  of  the  enemy — we  must  take  their  artillery  or  be  driven 
from  the  field." 

The  officer  sped  away,  through  the  battle  clouds,  and  presently  the  re 
giment  of  lancers,  fifteen  hundred  strong,  were  seen  moving  forward,  in 
compact  order,  their  array  looking  very  beautiful,  very  terrible,  by  the 
glare  of  the  cannon  light,  as  with  red  pennons  waving  from  their  fifteen 
hundred  points  of  steel,  they  began  to  gloom  upon  the  band  of  Ringgold. 

At  their  head — his  helmet  glittering  in  a  single  ray  of  sunlight — Torre 
jon  waved  his  sword,  and  pointed  toward  the  conspicuous  form  of  the 
Cannon  Hero. 

Taylor  saw  their  beautiful  array  and  could  not  help  admiring  the  im 
posing  march,  with  which  they  rehearsed  their  funeral.  A  word  passed 
from  the  old  man's  lips,  an  aid  de  camp  whirled  over  the  field. 

In  a  moment,  the  Fifth  infantry,  formed  in  square,  with  their  bayonets 
flashing  back  the  light  of  fifteen  hundred  lances,  silently  awaited  the  ap 
proach  of  the  formidable  lancers.  On  their  right,  behold  twenty  mounted 
men,  dressed  in  dark  green  frocks,  with  a  young  man,  remarkable  for  his 
determined  visage  at  their  head.  CAPTAIN  WALKER,  and  a  few  of  his 
iron-chested,  death-eyed  Texan  rifles. 

The  Lancers  come  on  !  The  brave  RIDGELY,  with  a  portion  of  RING- 
GOLD'S  battery,  prepares  to  give  them  a  hospitable  welcome,  He  unlim- 
bers  his  pieces  ;  in  a  moment,  a  hot  feast  of  grape  and  canister,  will 
smoke  before  their  nostrils. 


*  General  Sentmanat — at  Tobasco  in  1844. 

t  The  Patron  Saint  of  Mexico. 
7 


58  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

And  in  the  midst  of  the  Right  Wing,  erect  on  his  white  steed,  his  glow 
ing  cheek  marking  his  intense  interest,  in  the  course  of  those  lancers,  you 
behold  MAJOR  RINGGOLD. 

And  all  is  silent  as  the  Lancers  come  on.  Terrible  silence  !  Look 
yonder  and  see  Zachary  Taylor's  grey  eye  fixed  intently  upon  their  ap 
proach — ha  !  ha  !  A  shout, — he  cannot  keep  it  down — echoes  from  his 
lip,  he  raises  his  clenched  hand  and  shouts  again. 

For  all  at  once  the  infantry,  have  poured  their  fire  into  the  lancer's 
faces  ;  Ridgely  has  delivered  his  message  of  grape  and  cannister  ;  Cap- 
fain  Walker,  with  those  twenty  battle  devils  has  poured  the  blaze  of  his 
rifles,  into  their  foremost  ranks,  and  now,  with  twenty  upraised  knives, 
charges  them  home. 

There  is  much  smoke ;  there  are  horrible  groans.  The  smoke  clears 
away,  and  you  behold  the  foremost  lancers,  mown  down,  horses  and  men 
together,  into  one  bloody  mass.  Again  they  form,  again  the  Americans 
wait  until  they  can  count  the  buttons  on  their  coats,  and  the  iron  shower, 
rained  hissing  from  cannon  and  rifle  and  musquet,  beats  a  hundred  faces 
into  dust. 

Hark  ?  that  hurrah  !  You  see  Walker  alone,  with  his  brave  twenty 
charging  a  detachment  of  the  lancers,  at  least  one  hundred  strong.  At 
first  it  looks  like  a  cloud  of  men,  horses  and  steel,  but  presently  you  see 
the  rifleman's  plain  uniform,  come  out,  in  strong  contrast,  with  the  gaudy 
lancer's  trappings — you  mark  the  flash  of  the  bowie  knife  and  see  the 
answering  stream  of  blood. 

It  would  have  done  old  Daniel  Morgan  good,  to  see  this  young  Walker. 
A  very  unpretending  man  in  appearance,  with  a  sun-burnt  face,  a  form 
altogether  full  of  iron  sinews,  and  yet  not  remarkable  for  gigantic  height ; 
an  arm  that  strikes  suddenly  and  strikes  home.  In  fact  the  modern  Lee 
of  the  American  army,  fighting  always,  on  his  own  account,  and  flashing 
out,  in  individual  deeds  of  glory. 

"Again,  my  brave  comrades"  shouted  Torrejon,  as  his  horse  reared 
among  heaps  of  dead — "Charge  !  Turn  their  flanks — and  the  train  is  ours  !" 

Advancing  over  the  bodies  of  their  own  dead,  the  Lancers  raised  once 
more  their  glittering  front  into  light,  but  the  FIFTH  infantry,  a  solid  wall 
of  bayonets  received  them.  But  on  they  pressed,  the  contest  deepened, 
lances  and  bayonets  were  locked  together,  when  the  veteran  Colonel 
TWIGGS,  his  stern  visage,  manifesting  in  each  lineament,  the  fever  of  the 
hour,  uttered  the  word  of  command,  and  in  a  moment,  another  band* 
inarched  to  the  extreme  right,  their  arms  glittering  in  the  battle  light. 

It  was  too  much  for  the  Lancers. 

It  is  true,  they  thrice  outnumbered  the  American  troops,  it  is  true,  they 
•were  the  flower  of  Mexican  chivalry,  but  when  they  saw  that  wall  of 

*  The  THIRD  infantry. 


PALO  ALTO.  59 

bayonets  joined  to  another  glittering  line,  they  fell  back  over  the  faces  of 
their  dead. 

At  first  in  good  order,  squadron  by  squadron,  but  this  gallant  Ridgely 
cannot  see  them  depart  without  a  warm  farewell ;  again  his  batteries 
blaze,  and  yonder  in  the  Mexican  ranks — horse  and  man,  go  thundering 
to  the  sod  together.  Even  as  he  directs  the  fire,  the  flanks  of  his  horse 
are  torn  in  bloody  fragments  by  a  cannon  ball — they  fall  to  the  earth,  the 
horse,  writhing  over  his  prostrate  master.  It  is  a  fearful  moment:  Ridgely 
is  lost  !  But  no  !  He  rises,  wipes  the  blood  from  his  face,  and  beholds 
a  frightened  horse,  plunging  before  the  muzzle  of  a  cannon. 

He  darts  forward,  seizes  the  bridle  rein,  and  in  the  full  blaze  of  con 
tending  fires,  he  wheels  the  maddened  horse  aside. 

Look  yonder — a  glorious  sight !     The  brilliant  uniforms  of  the  lancers 
seen  through  the  aperture  of  that  colossal  cloud,  their  steel  points,  and 
red  pennons,  breaking  together,  like  waves  upon  a  rocky  coast. 
And  Ringgold — where  is  he  ? 

Unconscious  of  the  fearful  destiny,  that  awaits  him,  he  pours  his  fire 
once  more,  and  by  its  light,  sees  whole  companies  splintered  into  frag 
ments.  Still,  with  that  sternly  compressed  lip  and  eagle  eye,  he  watched 
the  effect  of  each  discharge,  nor  hesitated,  when  he  saw  glimpses  of  the 
clear  sky,  through  the  lanes  which  he  made  in  the  Mexican  ranks. 

At  this  moment,  the  eye  of  old  Zachary,  beheld  a  glorious  sight  to  the 
far  left. 

It  was  the  battery  of  Duncan,  blazing  amid  the  bayonets  of  the  eighth 
regiment,  and  the  horses  of  Captain  Ker's  dragoons.  These  horses  and 
bayonets  encircle  the  battery  ;  you  see  its  steady  hurricane,  pour  in  un 
remitting  fury  upon  the  Mexican  ranks. 

Note  the  effect  of  a  single  discharge  :  a  band  of  men,  arrayed  yonder, 
present  their  beautiful  horses,  their  splendid  costume,  to  the  aim  of  Dun 
can's.  There  is  a  blaze — a  report — a  mass  of  white  smoke  !  Now  look 
for  your  chivalric  Mexicans,  and  look  until  your  tired  eye  sickens  with 
the  sight  of  blood.  By  the  light  of  the  sun  streaming  through  the  battle 
blaze,  and  looking  like  the  eye  of  a  mad  debauchee,  behold  the  earth 
littered  with  horses  and  men,  woven  through  each  other,  in  all  the  horrible 
shapes  of  pain. 

But  the  battery  has  no  heart — it  only  seems  to  know  that  the  Mexicans 
are  yonder,  that  they  are  in  the  way  of  old  Zachary,  and  then  swearing 
its  awful  thunder  oath,  it  cuts  them  down. 

Yet,  do  not  think  that  the  Mexican  cannonade  spends  all  its  fury  in 
air !  No  !  Could  the  mothers,  the  sailors,  the  wives,  scattered  through  the 
American  Union,  at  this  hour,  thinking  fondly  of  their  beloved  ones,  at 
this  moment,  behold  them,  they  would  see  the  tall  rank  grass,  waving 
over  their  mangled  forms,  undulating  to  each  pulse  of  pain,  while  the 
cannon  shot,  cannot  altogether  drown  the  cry  of  agony. 


60  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

Even  as  our  hearts  writhe  within  us.  at  the  horrible  chorus  of  groans, 
which  fills  the  air,  the  cannon  of  Duncan  communicates  its  blaze,  to  the  tall 
prairie  grass,  which  dried  and  blasted,  waves  before  their  muzzles,  and 
withers  into  flame.  Such  a  glorious  flame  !  Over  the  plain,  across  the 
space  between  the  armies,  like  a  flash  of  lightening  it  hisses  along,  burn 
ing  the  cold  faces  of  the  dead  to  cinder,  and  crowding  the  prairie  with  a 
mass  of  fire,  that  blazes  far  overhead,  in  a  thousand  points  of  light. 

Then  a  dense  smoke  rolls  up  between  the  armies,  shutting  them  from 
each  others  view,  and  like  the  curtain  of  the  theatre,  closing  the  first  act 
of  the  glorious  drama  of  PALO  ALTO. 

And  amid  those  clouds  of  smoke,  which  hide  the  foemen  from  each 
other's  sight,  and  all  at  once,  silence  the  voices  of  battle — all  but  the 
groans — you  may  see  the  bronzed  visage  of  Zachary,  lightened  by  a 
smile,  and  gleaming  gladly  from  the  large  grey  eyes. 

Far  to  the  south, — aye,  through  the  dense  folds  of  smoke  you  hear  it 
— comes  a  murmuring  yet  welcome  sound.  The  Mexicans  are  retreating 
from  thejield,  to  form  a  new  line  of  battle  under  the  cover  of  the  smoky 
pall!  With  two  thousand  untried  men,  Taylor  has  beaten  back  six 
thousand  of  the  bravest  veterans  of  Mexico.  Taylor  and  his  heroes 
have  done  it :  Taylor  and  Duncan,  and  Twiggs,  and  Ridgely  and  Church 
ill  and  Ringgold,  have  forced  the  tri-color  to  give  way  before  the  Banner 
of  the  Stars. 

There  is  a  pause  in  the  dim  of  battle,  a  mighty  breathing  time  in  the 
work  of  blood.  While  the  Mexicans  form  their  new  line,  beyond  this 
gloomy  pall,  let  us  take  the  ground  which  they  occupied,  not  ten  minutes 
since. 

Let  the  Banners  of  the  regiments  advance  !  Then  Churchill's  two 
eighteen  pounders  move  forward  drawn  by  twenty  yoke  of  oxen,  complacent 
beasts,  who  put  their  hoofs  on  dead  men's  faces,  and  crop  the  tall  rank 
grass,  as  they  walk  peacefully  along. 

But  the  wounded — yes  !  God  pity  them,  we  must  bear  them  gently  to 
the  rear,  and  keep  stout  hearts  within  us,  for  here  are  sights  to  wring  the 
soul  of  the  strong  man,  and  shame  his  scarred  cheek  with  womanish 
tears  ! 

To  the  rear  with  the  wounded — yes,  American  and  Mexican,  with 
brows  bleeding  and  limbs  crushed,  with  the  breath  rattling  through  the 
pierced  lungs,  and  the  mouth  choked  with  blood— bear  them  to  the  rear  ? 
Rather  face  the  burst  of  Ringgold's  cannon,  than  witness  sights  like  these, 
— who  would  not  ?  For  the  dead  we  do  not  care. 

Care  ;  no  !  They  may  lie  upon  their  faces,  biting  mouthfuls  of  bloody 
dust,  they  may  rest  upon  their  backs  glaring  with  stony  eyes,  upon  that 
cloud,  which  covers  them,  like  a  pall,  they  may  be  torn  in  pieces,  here  a 
grisly  head,  and  there  an  arm. — They  who  have  wives  or  mot!  ers,  or  sis- 


PALO  ALTO.  61 

ters,  weeping  for  them,  even  now  in  a  far  away  land — but  what  care  we  ? 
Pain,  want,  the  world  itself,  to  them,  are  now  but  empty  names,  for 
they  are  dead. 

But  the  wounded,  oh,  have  you  the  heart  to  gaze  upon  them,  as  they 
pass  by,  in  the  arms  of  sturdy  living  men  ? 

A  young  soldier,  with  his  coat  thrown  open,  and  the  gash  from  the 
throat  to  the  waist  laid  bare.  A  very  boy,  pale  and  clammy  in  the  deli 
cate  features,  his  arms  and  legs  dangling  over  the  ground,  as  they  bear 
him  away.  He  faced  the  battle,  with  a  quickening  pulse  and  boyish 
shout,  but  now,  in  his  delirium,  he  only  mutters  certain  childish  words 
about  his  Sister  and  his  Home  ! 

Then  a  strong  man  is  borne  along,  his  skull  laid  open  by  a  chain-shot. 
Howling,  mad  with  pain,  he  blasphemes  his  God,  and  reaches  forth  his 
arms  to  choke  the  wounded  Mexican,  who,  shrieking  in  ludicrous  English 
for  "  Water  !"  is  carried  by  his  side. 

But  now,  the  Soldiers  to  whom  this  sad  duty  is  entrusted,  approach  a 
form,  hidden  in  the  tall  grass — an  old  man — 

Yet,  ere  we  gaze  upon  him,  and  hear  words  which  will  fill  our  eyes, 
and  make  our  hearts  beat  quicker,  let  me  tell  you  a  Legejnd  of  two  worlds. 

There  was  a  night,  when  a  solitary  lamp  burned  in  the  Imperial  Palace 
of  Fontainebleu^  The  gardens  around  were  dark  ;  the  halls  within  deso 
late  ;  the  fountains  hushed.  The  Palace  wore  the  aspect  of  a  Tomb.  It 
seemed  as  though  a  cloud  of  mourning  hung  over  its  wide  roofs  and 
towers  :  mourning  for  the  crimes  and  miseries  of  France.  The  sceptre 
was  about  departing  from  her  hands,  the  laurel  from  her  brows. 

Along  this  corridor  of  the  deserted  palace,  before  a  narrow  doorway, 
stalks  the  sentinel,  his  stealthy  tread  scarce  arousing  the  ghost  of  an  echo. 
All  is  dark  around  him,  yet  as  he  approaches  the  deep-embayed  window, 
at  the  end  of  the  corridor,  you  see  the  costume  of  a  soldier  clothing  his 
broad  chest,  the  musquet  of  a  veteran  in  his  grasp.  And  as  he  walks 
along,  looking  earnestly  toward  the  narrow  door — now  pausing  to  listen — 
he  utters  a  subdued  groan,  and  the  tears  stream  down  his  rugged  cheeks. 

Within  that  door  burns  the  solitary  lamp  of  Fontainebleu.  It  is  a  small 
door,  and  yet  it  leads  into  a  spacious  chamber,  furnished  with  all  the  lux 
ury  of  Imperial  grandeur.  The  hangings  are  of  rich  purple,  spotted  with 
golden  bees  ;  the  carpet  glows  with  the  dyes  of  oriental  art ;  the  bed  is 
worthy  to  be  pressed  by  a  young  and  beautiful  woman,  that  woman  the 
Bride  of  an  Emperor. 

Its  curtains  of  deep  azure  are  gathered  on  the  summit,  in  the  beak  of  a 
golden  eagle — the  Eagle  of  France. 

Near  the  bed  stands  a  small  desk,  on  which  the  light  is  placed.  Beside 
the  desk,  the  carpet  is  littered  with  maps  and  charts,  and  the  gleam  of  a 
half-sheathed  sword  arrests  your  eye. 


62  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

As  you  wander  through  the  room,  wondering  at  this  magnificence,  which 
the  faint  light  invests  with  a  graveyard  gloom,  starting  at  the  echo  of  yon 
step,  which  makes  you  shudder,  you  know  not  why,  there  is  a  movement 
among  the  curtains  of  the  bed,  and  from  its  shadows  a  half-naked  man 
struggles  painfully  into  the  light. 

With  the  curtains  surmounting  him  like  a  frame,  he  sits  on  the  edge  of 
the  bed,  a  loose  dressing  gown  falling  about  his  limbs.  One  hand  dropped 
by  his  side,  grasps  a  phial ;  the  other,  in  a  gesture  expressive  of  physical 
exhaustion,  rests  languidly  on  the  desk. 

His  head  is  downcast;  the  light  falls  on  a  forehead  remarkable  for  its 
massive  outline,  and  reveals  his  large  eyes,  with  ghastly  blue  circles  un 
derneath.  His  cheeks  are  sallow,  his  lips  white — the  entire  appearance 
of  that  face,  indicates  a  great  soul  sinking  in  the  apathy  of  despair,  a  vig 
orous  body  withering  into  hopeless  torpor. 

He  sits  there,  on  the  edge  of  the  imperial  couch,  grasping*  the  phial  in 
his  right  hand,  while  his  head  sinks  nearer  to  his  breast.  Not  a  word 
passes  his  lips — a  sense  of  desolation  seems  to  enclose  him,  and  press 
down  upon  him,  as  the  coffin  lid  shuts  in  the  corse. 

That  man  is  called  NAPOLEON. 

Do  not  start  and  wonder,  for  only  a  few  days  since,  a  battle  was  fought 
called  WATERLOO. 

Alone  in  his  deserted  palace,  alone,  while  the  Idiots  of  Royalty,  the 
Bourbons,  are  coming  back  to  Paris  and  to  this  Fontainebleu,  on  barbarian 
bayonets, — alone  with  the  despair  of  his  great  heart— this  Man  has  taken 
poison,  but  he  cannot  die. 

For,  as  I  said  a  moment  ago,  his  Name  is  NAPOLEON.  His  mighty  life 
demands  a  sublime  death-bed.  An  Island-Rock  in  the  midst  of  an  Ocean, 
can  alone  afford  a  couch  for  his  dying  hour. 

He  has  taken  poison  but  cannot  die,  for  Destiny  does  not  forget  her 
child. 

A  few  days  ago,  he  pressed  this  couch,  with  a  young  and  beautiful 
woman  by  his  side,  a  lovely  child  smiling  upon  his  face,  his  own  image, 
hallowed  by  the  outlines  of  infancy.  Only  a  few  days,  and  he  walked 
these  halls  an  Emperor,  with  crowds  of  liveried  Lords — the  parasites 
whom  the  justice  of  the  Revolution  had  spared,  the  Generals  who  had 
won  their  titles  on  the  battlefield — Lords,  I  say,  and  Dukes  and  Princes, 
doing  him  the  commonest  offices  of  menial  service. 

Where  is  the  wife  now  ?  The  child  ?  Where  the  long  lines  of  liveried 
Princes,  who  did  honor  to  the  Emperor  ?  Where  the  Generals  and  Mar 
shals  of  France,  who  had  flashed  into  Kings  at  his  word  ? 

The  wife — what  better  could  we  expect  from  royal  blood,  cankered  by 
the  scrofula  of  a  thousand  years— has  fled,  taking  with  her  the  Child  of 
Napoleon.  The  Princes  in  livery,  are  even  now,  making  their  peace  with 
the  Russian  Barbarian,  and  doing  homage  to  that  immortal  British  Mis- 


PALO   ALTO.  03 

take,  who  did  not  lose  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  that  immense  fog  of  history, 
My  Lord  Wellington. 

And  NAPOLEON  is  left  alone,  to  die,  with  the  poison  phial  in  his  hand ! 

As  wrapped  in  the  apathy  of  despair,  he  crouches  on  the  edge  of  the 
imperial  bed,  he  hears  the  sentinel's  footstep,  and  starts  to  his  feet.  That 
sound  is  strange  to  him — it  speaks  of  the  Camp,  which  after  all,  was 
Napoleon's  only  Throne.  He  rises,  opens  the  door,  calls. 

The  Sentinel  enters  ;  you  see  him  by  the  dim  light,  a  man  of  some 
forty  years,  with  Aboukir,  Moscow,  Austerlitz,  written  on  his  bronzed 
face.  His  dark  green  uniform  is  miserably  worn,  and  hideously  patched 
with  blood.  A  thick  dark  moustache  covers  his  upper  lip,  and  hides  its 
tremor. 

You  see  him,  tall  and  erect,  stand  before  the  Fallen  Destiny,  that  man 
in  the  dressing  gown,  with  the  marks  of  poison  on  his  god-like  face. 

"  Who  bade  you  watch  here  ?" — his  voice  is  harsh,  abrupt. 

"My  heart^  Sire  !"  says  the  soldier,  whose  twenty  years  of  service, 
have  left  him  where  he  began — in  the  ranks. 

There  was  something  in  the  voice  of  the  soldier,  that  went  straight  to 
Napoleon's  heart. 

"  Your  heart  ?     Nonsense  !     All  have  deserted  me— why  not  you  ?" 

"  It  is  not  true,  Sire,"  and  the  Soldier  rose  powerfully  erect — "  All  have 
not  deserted  you!  These  lords,  these  princes,  these  dukes — Sacre .' 
They  could  not  desert  you,  for  they  were  never  with  you.  But  the 
People,  Sir,  the  People  were  with  you,  always  with  you — they  are  with 
you  now  !  Look  you,  Sire — these  tears  !  I — weep — I,  who  never  wept 
when  I  saw  Moscow's  flame  upon  your  face, — uor  shed  one  tear  when 
Waterloo  flung  its  clouds  upon  your  brow — I  weep  now !  To  see  you 
thus,  when  at  a  word  from  your  lips,  forty  thousand  men,  who  watch 
around  this  palace,  would  tear  the  hearts  from  their  bodies,  to  serve  you ! 
Come,  Sire,  say  the  word,  and  we'll  raise  the  Eagle  again  !" 

The  head  of  Napoleon  sunk  upon  his  breast.  The  broken  appeal  of 
that  soldier  stirred  his  leaden  apathy  into  tears. 

"  Your  name  ?" 

"  I  have  fought  so  long  in  the  ranks,  by  a  name  which  my  comrades 
gave  me,  that  I  have  almost  forgotten  the  name  which  my  father  bore, 
which  I  took  with  me  from  my  native  village  twenty  years  ago.  Call 
me  Comrade  Joseph,  Sire  !" 

"  In  the  ranks  ?"  cried  Napoleon—"  With  your  years  of  service  !  What ! 
No  Cross,  no  badge  of  honor  ?  No  token  of  merit  ?  No  reward  ?" 

"  Wrong,  Sire,  again  !  After  Austerlitz,  as  I  lay  mangled  near  your 
horse's  feet,  you  pointed  to  me,  and  muttered,  '  Poor  ftllow !  He  hcu 
fought  bravely  /'  I  have  been  rewarded." 

He  brought  his  musquet  down  upon  the  rich  carpet,  with  a  sound  like 
thunder,  by  way  of  adding  emphasis  to  his  words.  It  is  not  to  be  con- 


64  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

cealed,  that  this  speech  affected  Napoleon  deeply.  Turning  away,  the 
fallen  Emperor  opened  a  secret  drawer  of  his  desk. 

"  Come  hither,  Comrade  Joseph— all  whom  I  ever  made  rich  by  princely 
gifts,  have  deserted  me.  You— to  whom  I  never  gave  so  much  as  a  sou, 
you,  whose  services  of  twenty  years  have  been  passed  unrewarded  by, 
you  are  true,  when  all  the  world  is  false.  Joseph,  I  have  no  Cross  to 
give _for  the  Legion  of  Honor  is  dead.  Joseph,  speak  !  Will  you  ac 
cept  a  name  from  me — " 

«Sire — "  the  Soldier  gasped,  with  choking  utterance. 

"  Take  from  the  fallen  Emperor,  the  name  of  JOSEPH  AUSTERLITZ  ! 
Here  is  a  picture — my  picture— wear  it  next  your  heart,  Joseph,  and  treat 
it  better  than  its  last  possessor — "  he  bowed  his  head  and  veiled  his  face 
from  the  light — "My  Empress,  Maria  Louisa,  left  it,  when  she  fled 
from  me  /" 

And  at  midnight,  in  the  silent  palace  of  Fontainebleu,  did  the  fallen 
Man  of  Destiny  hang  round  the  veteran  soldier's  neck,  that  golden  chain, 
to  which  was  attached  his  own  picture,  with  its  god-like  forehead,  and 
large,  eloquent  eyes. 

On  the  field  of  Palo  Alto,  amid  the  tall  rank  grass,  behold  an  aged  man, 
whose  hair  and  mustache  white  as  the  driven  snow,  contrast  strongly  with 
his  bronzed  and  battle-worn  face.  His  blue  uniform,  thrown  open  across 
the  breast,  reveals  the  death-wound  ;  you  see  his  blue  eyes  roll  from  side 
to  side,  and  hear  the  air  rattling  in  his  mangled  chest. 

His  stiffening  fingers  grasp  his  short  artillerist  sword,  as  with  his  face 
to  the  sky,  or  rather  toward  the  cloud  of  prairie  smoke,  he  bites  his  lips, 
and  chokes  down  the  involuntary  groan  of  pain. 

"  Comrade,"  exclaim  the  soldiers,  whose  place  it  is  to  bear  the  wounded 
to  the  rear,  "  We  are  sorry  to  see  you  in  this  condition  — "  and  the  sight 
of  the  old  man's  head,  baptized  with  the  snows  of  seventy  years,  held 
them  spell-bound  to  the  spot. 

He  raised  himself  on  one  arm — venerable  sight !  His  broad  chest  was 
bared;  they  could  see,  written  in  that  scar  near  the  throat,  the  word 
Moscow. 

The  bronzed  face,  marked  on  each  cheek,  and  over  the  brow,  with  the 
traces  of  long  healed  wounds,  spoke  eloquently  of  Aboukir,  Marengo, 
Austerlitz  and  Waterloo. 

Perchance  some  memory  of  these  glorious  names,  was  busy  at  his 
heart,  perchance  the  thought  of  France,  came  up  to  him  in  this  moment 
of  agony,  but  he  merely  said  — 

"  Go  on  comrades  !     It  is  but  an  old  man  lost !" — And  fell  back  dead. 

Near  his  wound  a  golden  chain  sparkled  into  light,  and  beneath  that 
wound,  rising  with  the  last  pulsation  of  his  heart,  appeared  the  portrait  of 
NAPOLEOX. 


PALO  ALTO.  65 

Thus,  on  the  sod  of  the  battle-field,  miry  with  blood,  are  drawn  many- 
pictures  of  wild  and  contrasted  interest. 

Near  the  corse  of  the  soldier  of  Napoleon,  a  child  of  Poland  breathes 
his  last,  and  yonder,  an  old  man,  in  plain  farmer's  costume,  sits  amid  the 
long  grass,  holding  on  his  knee,  a  boy  not  more  than  nineteen  years  old, 
whose  pale  cheek,  and  closed  lids,  and  smiling  lips,  announce  a  long  and 
peaceful  sleep. 

It  needs  no  words,  to  indicate  the  tie  which  binds  these  two  together. 
An  old  farmer  of  Texas,  who  left  his  plough  for  the  rifle,  and  took  with 
him,  to  battle,  his  only  son  ! 

His  only  son  f  The  old  man  wipes  his  brow  with  the  back  of  his  hand, 
and  looks  upon  that  serene  face,  smiling  upon  him,  in  its  calm  slumber. 
His  sunburnt  face  is  unruffled  by  an  emotion,  still  you  may  distinguish  an 
almost  imperceptible  twitching  of  the  nether  lip,  while  the  veins  of  his 
bared  throat  swell,  until  they  resemble  cords  of  steel. 

His  only  son.  Dying,  not  with  convulsive  howls  of  pain,  but  calmly 
as  an  infant  goes  to  sleep.  The  agitation  of  the  old  man,  finds  rent  at 
last  in  these  rude  words,  spoken  hurriedly,  without  a  tear,  yet  with  husky 
utterance  : 

"  Your  Mother,  boy,  what  '11  I  say  to  her,  when  I  go  home,  and  see 
her  standing  in  the  door  and  askin'  for — you  ?  She  'II  ask  whar  you  ar', 
and  what  can  I  say  ?" 

And  unable  to  hold  the  agony  that  was  clasping  him,  the  old  man 
wrapped  his  huge  arm  about  the  dead  boy  and  wept  terribly ;  as  only  a 
strong  man  can  weep. 

It  was  now  four  o'clock.  The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west  :  his  disc, 
like  an  immense  globe  of  fire,  glared  through  the  darkening  cloud  of  battle 
smoke.  The  Americans  have  advanced,  yes,  through  the  fire  and  smoke 
of  the  burning  prairie,  you  may  see  on  the  very  spot,  when  an  hour  ago, 
floated  the  tri-color  of  Mexico,  now  waving  proudly  the  Banner  of  the 
Stars. 

Calmly  reining  his  old  grey  horse,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  late  battle 
field,  stout-hearted  Zachary  prepares  for  the  second  fight  of  Palo  Alto.  A 
sad,  a  terrible  prospect  meets  his  eye  beneath  his  horse's  feet — the  earth 
harrowed  by  cannon  balls,  and  miry  with  blood.  But  around  him — ah, 
that  is  the  sight  to  stir  the  old  man's  heart,  even  through  the  gathering 
shadows,  the  bayonets  gleam  like  shattered  rays  of  light. 

On  his  right,  he  beholds  RINGGOLD'S  cannon,  backed  by  the  hearts  and 
steel  of  the  heroic  Fourth.  Beyond  the  cannon  you  behold  the  Fifth 
Regiment,  their  bayonets  glittering  on  the  extreme  right  of  the  newly 
formed  line.  Far  on  the  left  the  unwearied  DCNCAN  repairs  the  wounds, 
which  his  battery  has  endured,  and  brings  forth  fresh  stores  of  powder 

and  ball,  for  the  last  fight  of  Palo  Alto. 

8 


66  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

CHURCHILL  is  not  idle,  you  may  be  sure  ;  he  is  teaching  his  terrible 
eighteen  pounders,  how  to  speak  in  the  coming  battle. 

To  the  south,  the  prospect  stirs  the  General's  blood.  Through  those 
vast  curtains  of  prairie  smoke,  now  descending  upon  the  fiery  sod  like  a 
pall,  and  now  undulating  like  mists  about  the  mountain  top,  he  sees  the 
long  line  of  Mexican  arms,  glitter  far  over  the  plain,  into  the  shadows  of 
the  chaparral. 

•'  Arista  has  chosen  his  last  position !"  said  the  General,  with  one  of 
his  quiet  smiles. 

Flutter,  Banner  of  the  Stare,  flutter  beautifully,  and  fling  forth  your  belts 
of  scarlet  and  snow,  for  all  that  is  left  of  the  two  thousand  men,  looks  up 
to  you  with  hope,  as  the  trumpet  of  battle  shrieks  along  the  breeze ! 

And  from  the  Mexican  line — look !  That  volume  of  flame,  streaming 
through  the  smoke  of  the  burning  prairie — hark  !  That  hurricane  of 
iron  balls  ! 

Around  the  cannon  of  Ringgold,  the  fury  of  the  Mexican  battle  descends, 
in  a  whirlwind  of  cannister  and  grape.  Arista  smiles,  as  from  afar  he 
surveys  the  effect  of  his  fire  :  for  every  discharge  flings  a  shower  of  blood 
into  the  faces  of  living  men,  and  from  the  solid  ranks,  picks  out  brave 
forms  and  crushes  them  into  the  grave,  dug  by  the  cannon  ball  at  their  feet. 

Behold  the  gallant  Fourth  ;  hear  the  howl  of  pain,  as  bayonet  after 
bayonet  sinks  to  rise  in  its  owner's  hands  no  more. 

It  was  in  the  heat  of  this  terrible  fire,  that  a  scene  took  place,  which 
for  its  strong  lights  and  dark  shadows,  has  no  parallel  in  history.  Let  us 
behold  the  picture,  framed  as  it  is,  in  the  smoke  of  the  burning  prairie. 

We  stand  on  this  space  of  sward,  burnt  and  blackened  by  the  heat  of 
battle.  Before  us  glooms  the  terrible  eighteen  pounders,  which  all  day 
long,  have  thundered  their  message  of  death  into  the  Mexican  ranks. 

Around  those  cannon  extends  a  circle  of  manly  chests  and  glittering 
steel.  You  see  them,  there,  the  heroes  of  the  day,  standing  amid  the  dead 
bodies  of  their  comrades.  Three  figures  in  the  picture,  standing  out  from 
all  others,  rivet  our  eyes. 

CHURCHILL,  standing  erect,  near  his  cannon,  his  face  begrimed  with 
powder  and  stained  with  blood.  By  his  side  PAYNE,  the  Inspector  Gene 
ral,  a  man  of  gallant  presence,  whose  uniform,  as  yet  unstained  with  blood, 
glitters  gaily  in  the  light,  as  bending  down  he  '  sights'  one  of  the  remorse 
less  eighteen  pounders,  and  prepares  to  hurl  its  hurricane  of  iron  into  the 
Mexican  army. 

In  the  open  space,  near  the  cannon,  behold  the  prominent  figure  of  the 
picture — a  warrior,  mounted  on  a  white  horse,  his  head  thrown  proudly 
erect  on  his  shoulders,  as  with  a  gleaming  eye,  he  gazes  upon  the  battle. 
It  is  a  beautiful  horse,  with  neck  arched,  and  mane  fluttering  to  the 
breeze. 


PALO  ALTO.  67 

That  manly  form,  enveloped  in  the  blue  costume,  relieved  by  ornaments 
of  gold,  that  stern  face,  surmounted  by  the  helmet,  over  which  descends 
the  shower  of  waving  plumes,  that  broad  chest,  heaving  with  the  fever  of 
the  fight — it  is  a  magnificent  picture  of  manhood  in  its  prime. 

At  this  moment  you  behold  Churchill  standing  erect,  Payne  bending 
over  the  cannon,  the  soldier  on  the  white  horse  lifts  his  helmet,  and  a  ray 
of  sunlight  warms  his  pale,  high  forehead. 

Then  the  eighteen  pounders  yell  forth  their  battle  cry,  and  the  soldier 
on  the  white  horse,  is  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  smoke.  At  the  same  mo 
ment,  the  thunder  of  the  Mexican  cannon  is  heard,  you  see  that  cloud  of 
smoke,  mingled  with  a  cloud  of  dust,  roused  by  a  shower  of  iron  balls. 

The  smoke  is  there,  rolling  slowly — not  toward  the  sky — but  down 
ward,  until  it  shuts  the  soldiers  and  the  cannon  from  your  view. 

A  moment  passes,  and  from  the  bosom  of  that  smoke,  shrieks  a  yell, 
which  makes  your  blood  run  cold. 

And  from  that  cloud,  writhes  into  view,  the  figure  of  a  mangled  horse 
— the  beautiful  steed  which  we  beheld  only  a  moment  ago — his  limbs 
quivering,  his  eye  horribly  dilating,  his  flanks  gored  through  and  through 
by  a  cannon  ball. 

The  saddle  is  red  with  blood,  and  the  pistols  splintered  from  the  hols 
ters,  fall  in  fragments  by  the  side  of  the  dying  horse. 

But  the  rider — the  man  of  the  noble  form,  and  white  forehead,  gleam 
ing  in  the  sun  ? 

You  hear,  from  the  bosom  of  that  cloud,  a  low,  and  almost  unutterable 
groan,  and  then  from  its  folds,  there  rushes  a  rude  soldier,  his  form  bared 
to  the  waist,  darkened  by  powder,  while  his  rough  features  are  stamped 
with  an  expression  of  horrible  agony. 

"  Colonel,"  he  shrieks  rushing  toward  the  gallant  Payne, — "  Look 
there  !" 

He  points  to  the  sod,  and  every  soldier  in  the  group,  utters  a  cry  of 
horror. 

There,  beside  the  writhing  horse,  you  behold  the  soldier,  who  but  a 
moment  ago,  towered  in  all  the  pride  of  manhood.  Horribly  wounded, 
with  the  bones  of  each  leg  laid  bare,  from  the  knee  to  the  thigh,  he  rests 
his  head  upon  his  hand,  while  a  serene  smile  steals  over  his  stern 
visage. 

"  Leave  me,"  he  calmly  says  to  Payne,  to  Churchill,  to  the  soldiers 
who  clustered  round  him.  "  There  is  work  for  you  yonder!  You  must 
drive  the  Mexicans  before  you,  and  save  our  comrades  at  Fort  Brown  !" 

He  reached  forth  his  arm,  and  laid  it  upon  the  neck  of  his  steed,  which 
quivered  in  its  death  agony  by  his  side.  Then,  with  that  calm  smile 
stealing  over  his  features,  as  they  glowed  in  the  red  light  of  the  cannon 
flash,  he  took  the  chain  from  his  neck,  and  with  it  the  gold  watch — 

"  Give  it,"  he  said  and  his  voice  trembled  for  a  moment,  as  the  memo- 


68  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

ries  of  home,  came  crowding  round  his  warrior  heart — "  Give  it  to  my 
sister.  It  will  serve  to  remind  her  of  Palo  Alto  and — 

As  if  afraid  to  trust  his  tongue  with  further  words,  he  said  no  more, 
but  laid  his  head  upon  the  neck  of  his  steed,  while  his  wounds  poured 
their  torrents  of  blood  along  the  sod. 

As  for  the  officers  who  stood  round  him,  they  could  not  speak.  In  the 
description  of  the  varied  scenes  of  a  battle,  we  meet  with  many  that 
rend  the  heart,  but  to  hear  told,  but  this,  before  the  eyes  of  Churchill  and 
Payne,  was  the  most  heart-rending,  the  most  touching  of  all. 

RINGGOLD  dying  on  the  neck  of  his  dead  steed. 

Payne  near  his  head,  clasping  his  hands,  as  his  full  heart  gushed  to  his 
eyes.  Churchill  by  his  side,  on  his  knees,  veiling  his  face  in  his  hands, 
unable  to  gaze  upon  the  sight.  In  the  background  the  line  of  soldiers, 
all  awed  into  silence,  by  the  spectacle  before  them.  In  front  of  all,  a 
rugged  fellow,  his  form  bared  to  the  waist,  stained  with  powder,  as  he 
lifts  his  brawny  arms  to  his  face  and  shrieks  the  name  of  Ringgold,  with 
deep  sobs. — As  long  as  the  name  of  the  hero  remains,  would  live  the 
name  of  that  brave  teamster  KELLY,  who  although  his  time  expired  the 
night  before  the  battle,  preferred  to  remain  by  his  commander's  side,  and 
die  with  him,  or  worse  than  all  the  horrors  of  battle, — see  him  die. — 

In  the  midst  of  the  awe-stricken  spectators,  curtained  by  the  battle 
clouds,  the  dying  man  was  stretched  upon  the  neck  of  his  horse.  The 
cannon  balls  rent  the  earth  every  moment,  but  the  steed  lay  still,  and  the 
dying  man  did  not  stir.  Ever  and  anon,  as  the  clouds  above  rolled  away, 
the  full  light  of  the  setting  sun  poured  upon  his  pale  forehead,  and  lighted 
his  face  as  with  a  glory. 

And  while  the  revolutionary  blood  of  John  Cadwallader,  pouring  front 
the  veins  of  Ringgold,  crimsons  the  battle-field,  who  shall  dare  pierce  the 
shadows  of  that  far  off  home,  and  gaze  upon  the  Sister's  face, — illumined 
by  the  same  sunset  that  glows  over  the  face  of  the  dying  man — as  wrapt 
in  a  day-dream,  she  sees  her  absent  brother,  mounted  on  his  own  gallant 
steed— sees  him,  come  from  the  wars,  the  laurel  upon  his  white  forehead, 
the  glow  of  victory  upon  his  battle  worn  cheek  !  Dream  on  sister  of  the 
hero,  dream  on,  Sister  of  Ringgold  ;  not  many  weeks  will  pass,  before 
the  watch  and  chain,  placed  in  your  hands,  and  stained  with  his  dying 
blood,  will  make  your  heart  swell  with  agony  too  deep  for  tears,  as  you 
think  of  the  corse,  which  sleeps  upon  the  sands  near  the  Ocean  Wave  ! 

And  at  the  very  hour,  when  the  Sister  of  Ringgold,  thinks  of  the  absent 
brother  in  another  home  of  our  land,  a  wife  sitting  in  the  silence  of  her 
chamber,  rests  her  pale,  beautiful  cheek,  upon  her  white  hand,  while  the 
dark  eyes,  fire  with  tender  light  as  she  pictures  the  form  of  a  brave  sol 
dier,  now  far  away  on  the  field  of  battle.  How  he  will  return,  how  she 


PALO  ALTO.  69 

will  hear  his  footstep  in  the  hall,  how  she  will  spring  forward  to  the  thres 
hold,  and  bury  her  head  upon  his  bosom — she  thinks  of  it  all  ! 

At  this  hour,  amid  the  mist  of  Palo  Alto,  not  one  hundred  yards  from 
the  spot  where  Ringgold  fell,  that  husband  writhes  upon  the  dust,  his 
limbs  quivering  in  the  blood,  which  pours  from  his  wound,  and  swells  in 
little  pools,  where  the  horse's  hoofs  have  broken  the  sod.  A  horrible,  a 
ghastly  wound  !  The  whole  lower  jaw  torn  oft'  by  a  cannon  ball,  that 
manly  face,  in  a  single  moment,  wrecked  into  deformity ! 

Days  pass  ;  the  wife  hears  that  her  husband  has  been  wounded  in  the 
fight  of  Palo  Alto. 

At  once  she  leaves  her  home,  and  hurries,  like  a  dove  through  the  cloud, 
to  the  distant  battle  field.  Over  the  mountains,  and  across  the  rivers,  »n 
ship-board,  she  hastens  to  his  side,  hungering  to  behold  him,  to  pillow  his 
head  upon  her  breast  once  more.  But  a  strange  chance  separates  them, 
or— can  we  doubt  it  ?  Providence  wished  to  spare  her  yet  awhile,  the 
full  cup  of  agony. 

While  the  mangled  husband  is  borne  to  New  Orleans,  the  wife  is  on 
the  gulf,  hurrying  toward  the  field  of  Palo  Alto.  She  retraces  her  way, 
arid  pinioned  by  her  love,  resumes  her  Pilgrimage,  a  holier  pilgrimage 
than  was  ever  made  by  the  devotee  to  the  gilded  shrine,  for  it  was  the  pil 
grimage  of  a  faithful  wife  to  the  couch  of  a  wounded  husband. 

At  last,  she  beholds  him.  Well  may  the  heart  of  the  Painter  grow 
sick,  as  his  pencil  delineates  that  scene  of  all  the  scenes  the  most  heart 
rending.  A  door  was  opened  ;  the  wife  stood  quivering  on  the  threshold. 
"Enter" — they  said — "  Your  husband  is  here  !" 

She  entered,  trembling  all  the  while.  Through  the  closed  curtains,  a 
soft  light  stole  round  the  place.  It  was  very  quiet,  very  dim,  aye,  filled 
with  shadows,  broken  by  threads  of  sunshine  and  breathlessly  still. 

"  My  husband  here  ?" — And  with  that  volume  of  her  woman's  faith, 
glowing  over  her  cheek  and  gleaming  through  her  tears,  she  advanced, 
gathering  her  hands  to  her  breast,  for  the  swelling  heart,  seemed  choking 
the  life  within  her. 

"  Where  is  he  ?"  she  said,  standing  on  tip-toe,  in  the  centre  of  that 
darkened  room,  and  look !  as  with  her  arms  outspread,  her  pale  face 
turned  from  yonder  sofa,  and  turned  toward  the  light  she  listens. 

Where  is  he  ?  Ah,  that  groan,  scarcely  audible,  sounding  like  a  sigh 
from  the  dying,  as  their  lips  are  muffled  by  the  cold  hand  of  death. 

She  turns  and  gazes  into  the  shadows  of  the  chamber.  The  sofa 
stands  in  that  recess,  and  by  degrees,  the  form  of  a  man  clad  in  undress 
military  costfcme,  breaks  on  her  eye. 

But  that  cloth  upon  the  face,  that  thing  white  as  snow,  falling  over  the 
brow,  and  covering  the  features,  as  the  shroud  covers  the  heart  of  the 
dead  ?  What  does  it  mean  ?  A  white  hand  is  extended — "  My  Wife  !" 


70  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

exclaims  a  choking  voice  from  beneath  the  folds  of  the  cloth,  and  two 
arms  are  stretched  forth,  to  clasp  her  home  to  the  husband's  heart. 

Then  looking  tremblingly  up,  she  beholds  the  white  cloth  hanging  about 
the  face  of  her  husband,  and  with  her  heart  bursting  in  a  flood  of  tears, 
learns  at  a  glance  the  fearful  truth.  She  may  not  look  upon  the  hus 
band's  face.  Those  features  which  once  won  her  love,  with  their  chival- 
ric  manhood,  are  now  a  mass  of  ruins.  The  husband  seems  to  feel  that 
her  eyes  are  upmi  his  veiled  face,  and  utters  one  long  and  prolonged  groan 
of  anguish,  as  he  clutches  her  to  his  heart. 

The  last  scene  of  this  sad  history  !  Beneath  the  smile  of  the  morning 
sky,  on  the  deck  of  a  steamboat,  which  dashes  the  waters  of  the  Missouri 
from  its  prow,  two  figures,  rivet  the  eyes  of  a  weeping  crowd  :  a  dying 
husband  resting  on  the  breast  of  a  faithful  wife,  who  even  in  this  dread 
hour,  may  not  see  those  features  which  she  loved  so  well,  for  upon  the 
brow  and  the  shattered  face  still  rests  the  white  cloth,  fluttering  to  the 
last  impulse  of  the  warrior's  breath.* 

Gazing  from  the  centre  of  his  new  line  of  battle,  Arista  marked  with 
undisguised  complacency,  the  fire  of  his  artillery,  poured  in  all  its  concen 
trated  fury  upon  the  Right  Wing  of  the  American  army.  As  the  battle- 
light  lit  up  his  swarthy  face,  he  turned  his  eyes  to  the  sun — shinirtg  like  a 
thing  of  evil  omen,  through  the  dark  clouds — and  exclaimed,  "  It  shall  not 
set  before  I  have  crushed  these  Americans  on  the  field,  and  made  them 
feel  the  Invaders  fate  in  the  chaparral  !" 

His  fire  had  wreaked  all  its  fury  upon  the  right  wing.  He  now  re 
solved  to  carry  the  field  by  one  brilliant  effort.  Yonder  on  the  left  of  the 
American  line,  beyond  the  smoke  of  the  burning  prairie,  you  behold  the 
train  of  the  little  army,  a  prize  which  Arista  swears  shall  be  his  own, 
before  the  setting  of  the  sun. 

At  once,  the  glittering  officers  of  his  staff  were  seen  hurrying  over  the 
field.  The  point  of  attack  had  been  the  right,  it  was  now  to  be  suddenly 
changed,  and  the  left  of  the  American  line  was  to  feel  the  last  desperate 
blow,  stricken  by  the  Mexican  host. 

The  orders  of  Arista  produced  an  effect  like  magic.  His  right  wing, 
infantry  and  cavalry,  in  magnificent  array,  advanced  with  one  impulse, 
toward  the  unprotected  left  of  the  American  army.  It  was  a  sight  that 
would  have  stirred  your  blood,  to  see  them  come  on.  Men,  horses,  lances 
and  bayonets,  locked  together,  like  an  immense  engine  of  battle  murder, 
moved  suddenly  to  the  attack.  You  see  their  horses  moving  proudly  on, 
you  hear  the  dead,  sullen  tramp  of  the  infantry,  you  see  the  tri-color  wave, 


*  The  brave  Captain  PAGE,  wounded  at  Palo  Alto,  died  on  the  13th  of  July,  1846, 
onboard  the  steamer  Missouri,  while  on  his  way  to  Jefferson  barracks. 


PALO  ALTO.  71 

and  far  along  the  field  the  points  of  their  lances  gleam  like  torches,  and 
their  red  flags  flutter  against  the  southern  sky. 

Arista's  white  horse  is  seen  rearing  proudly,  as  his  rider,  already  feels 
the  throb  of  victory  pulsate  in  his  veins.  He  has  caught  that  rough  old 
Zachary  at  last.  He  knows  not  that  Ringgold  has  fallen,  nor  that  Page 
lies  a  mangled  wreck  upon  the  ground,  but  he  has  seen  the  effect  of  his 
deadly  fire  upon  the  right  wing.*  He  knows,  that  with  all  his  dead  and 
dying,  counted  twice  over,  he  still  twice  outnumbers  Zachary  Taylor  and 
his  Men.  To  add  to  his  joy,  but  a  moment  ago  he  saw  that  terrible  DUN 
CAN,  who,  all  day  long  had  poured  his  hurricane  of  iron  from  the  left, 
suddenly  whirl  along  the  American  line,  and  with  his  horses,  his  men,  his 
cannon,  disappear  in  the  clouds  toward  the  right.  He  has  gone  to  supply 
the  place  of  Ringgold — it  is  evident  that  the  train  is  the  prize  of  Arista, 
that  the  left  wing  will  be  turned  and  hurled  back  upon  the  right,  that 
Zachary  Taylor  and  his  men,  will  soon — aye,  ere  fifteen  minutes  have 
passed — be  prisoners  of  war. 

And  in  the  Mexican  dialect,  a  Prisoner  of  War,  means  a  Man  who  is 
to  be  hurled  into  a  dungeon,  or  shot  like  a  dog,  or  cut  to  pieces  with  as 
sassins'  knives.  " 

In  this  proud  moment,  as  men  and  horses  and  steel — that  solid  mass  of 
battle — moved  toward  the  left  wing,  their  joy  broke  forth,  in  the  music  of 
a  full  band.  You  see  that  immense  column  of  advancing  cavalry,  under 
the  command  of  Don  Cayetano  Montero,  one  of  those  brave  gentleman, 
splendid  in  his  dress  and  musical  in  his  name.  In  front  of  this  column, 
attired  in  burning  scarlet,  the  band  of  the  army  advance,  their  instruments 
stirring  the  blood  of  at  least  three  thousand  men,  into  madness,  as  they 
blaze  in  the  light  like  pieces  of  burnished  gold.  O,  sweetly,  O,  sadly,  O, 
terribly  that  music  rose  into  heaven,  with  every  varied  note  of  joy  and 
woe,  as  though  it  spoke  of  blood  and  tears,  of  Mexican  mothers  robbed  of 
their  sons,  and  of  American  soldiers,  who  soon  would  bite  the  sod,  with 
their  clenched  teeth,  and  feel  the  hoofs  of  the  horses  trampling  over  their 
breasts. 

That  man  is  to  be  pitied,  who  has  not  felt  his  blood  dance,  at  the  music 
of  a  battle  band.  Even  in  the  streets  of  the  every-day  city,  it  makes  your 
veins  swell  with  frenzy.  But  when  it  comes  from  a  band,  who  walk 
calmly  on,  in  front  of  an  advancing  army, — Death  before  and  Death  behind 
them — when  in  the  intervals  of  the  drum's  thunder  and  the  trumpet's  peal, 
you  hear  the  moan  of  pain,  the  short,  quick  cry  of  the  dying,  then  this 
music  of  a  battle  band,  makes  the  blood  run  riot.  You  hunger  for  the 
battle,  and  grow  thirsty  for  human  blood. 

They  advance  in  their  beautiful  order,  secure  in  the  confidence  of  vic- 


*  The  gallant  Lieut.  Luther  of  Pennsylvania,  was  wounded  in  this  fire. 


73  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

tory,  and  seem  to  have  forgotten  one  essential  fact.  There  is  a  brave  old 
warrior  in  yonder  ranks,  whose  name  is  Zachary  Taylor. 

As  they  come  on,  a  dark  mass  is  seen  moving  through  the  clouds  of 
prairie  smoke.  Like  a  dark  shadow  within  the  cloud,  it  moves  from  the 
right  to  the  left  of  the  American  line,  it  grows  larger  and  wider,  spreading 
forth  through  the  smoke,  like  the  pinions  of  an  immense  bird. 

As  one  man,  the  Mexicans  halt,  falling  back,  rank  on  rank  with  a  sud 
den  recoil,  and  a  crash  like  the  smothered  thunder  of  a  volcano.  For  that 
Cloud,  moving  rapidly  through  the  prairie  smoke,  begins  to  resolve  itself 
into  shape.  It  begins  to  grow  into  form.  From  its  bosom,  uprearing 
into  the  battle  light,  the  heads  of  horses  start  into  view.  A  rumbling 
sound  from  that  cloud,  a  murmur  as  of  wheels  passing  over  a  burnt  and 
cindered  sod,  and  then  the  brazen  cannon  flash  into  light.  Then,  amid 
the  flashing  of  dragoon  scimiters  and  the  circling  light  of  bayonets,  appears 
the  face  of  DUNCAN,  black  with  powder,  stained  with  blood,  and  terrible  to 
behold,  for  it  says  to  the  whole  line  of  Mexico, — We  are  here — here  to 
receive  you  !  We  have  seen  Ringgold  in  his  blood,  and  Taylor  on  his 
grey  steed  !  Ringgold  tells  us,  with  his  dying  voice,  that  there  is  work 
for  us  ahead — Taylor  bids  us  to  end  this  battle,  and  we  have  come  to 
do  it! 

Arista  saw  them  come  and  ground  his  teeth.  But  they  did  not  give 
him  breathing  time,  those  men  of  iron.  Dashing  from  the  cloud,  they 
arrayed  their  cannon  in  battle  order,  and  fired.  At  the  moment,  when  the 
sturdy  cannoniers  lifted  the  match,  you  might  hear  the  full  chorus  of  the 
Mexican  band,  and  admire  their  beautiful  array — their  uniform  blushing 
scarlet,  their  burnished  instruments  flashing  in  the  lurid  light. 

That  cannon  shout  drowned  their  music  forever.  They  were  arrayed 
in  the  very  front,  and  received  the  battle  blast  in  all  its  fury.  Crushed  to 
the  earth — not  in  mere  poetical  phrase — literally  hewn  away  by  the  hail 
of  cannister  and  shell,  they  strewed  the  ground,  shattered  trumpets  and 
mangled  heads,  broken  drums  and  torn  bodies,  mingled  in  one  bloody  pool. 
It  was  the  most  horrible  scene  of  the  whole  battle. 

For  a  moment,  the  Mexican  array  quivered  in  every  platoon,  as  with 
one  electric  horror  of  that  sight.  Then  with  their  shouts  of  revenge,  with 
their  banners  waving  and  their  lances  poised  and  bayonets  fixed,  they 
moved  forward — no  music  sounded  this  time — gradually  accelerating  their 
pace,  until  an  irresistible  impulse  seem  to  hurl  them  in  one  mass  upon 
the  foe. 

But  DUNCAN  was  there  to  receive  them.  As  they  came  on,  he  showered 
once  more  his  iron  hail.  Here  a  shell,  hurled  blazing  from  his  cannon's 
throat,  alighted  amid  a  circle  of  brave  lancers,  and  scattered  man  and 
horse  into  fragments  of  flesh  and  pools  of  blood.  Yonder,  the  infantry 
come  charging  with  fixed  bayonets  ;  their  green  uniform  and  swarthy 
faces  tinted  with  red  battle  light.  They  near  the  guns,  with  a  shout  they 


PALO  ALTO.  73 

pour  to  the  last  charge,  when  a  cloud  of  smoke  rushes  into  their  faces ; 
and  when  it  clears  away,  you  see  them  no  more. 

It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see  the  wreck  accomplished  by  Duncan's  cannon. 
Back,  over  the  mangled  forms  and  shattered  instruments  of  their  own 
musicians,  he  hurled  the  formidable  lancers,  back,  over  the  faces  of  their 
slaughtered  infantry,  back,  with  that  iron  shower  tearing  their  pennons, 
splintering  their  spears,  cutting  lanes  into  their  woven  ranks,  he  hurled 
the  chivalry  of  Mexico,  until  the  shadows  of  the  chaparral  alone,  saved 
the  wreck  of  their  glittering  array. 

— Taylor,  viewing  the  scene  from  the  saddle  of  his  steed,  turned  to  an 
officer  and  coolly  said,  "  the  day  is  won." — 

— Arista  beheld  it  with  an  expression  of  overwhelming  chagrin,  and 
looked  for  Ampudia  to  head  another  charge,  but  that  brave  man,  who  had 
boiled  a  human  head  from  mere  vivacity,  was  gone.  Perchance,  the 
visage  of  Captain  Walker,  that  unassuming  young  man,  who  always  re 
ceived  the  Mexicans  with  Kentuckian  warmth,  scared  the  hero  of  the  boil 
ing  cauldron  from  the  field  ? — 

Again,  mustering  his  forces  for  a  last,  a  forlorn  charge,  Don  Cayetano 
De  Montero  came  from  the  chaparral,  with  his  lancers  formed  once  more 
in  battle  order.  They  moved  to  the  attack  with  admirable  regularity.  The 
battery  of  Duncan  had,  in  the  meantime,  advanced  one  hundred  yards,  the 
cannon  wheels  forcing  a  path  through  Mexican  dead.  De  Montero  came 
on,  but  in  the  same  moment,  the  setting  sun  shone  over  his  spears,  the 
prairie  cloud  buried  them  in  smoke,  and  then  the  hurricane  of  shell  and 
canister  crushed  through  their  ranks  again. 

By  that  mingled  light,  the  setting  sun  shining  its  level  rays  through  the 
intervals  of  the  clouds,  and  the  cannon  blaze,  casting  its  red  glare  toward 
the  sky,  until  the  smoke  rolled  to  and  fro  in  wreaths  of  crimson,  you 
might  see  the  last  picture  of  this  battle  day. 

The  wreck  of  six  thousand  brave  men  in  full  retreat,  over  a  space  of 
prairie  three  miles  in  extent,  their  scattered  legions  seen  through  the  folds 
of  the  curtaining  clouds. 

Squadron  crowding  back  on  squadron,  one  column  communicating  its 
panic  to  another  in  the  rear,  until  the  battle  became  a  rout,  the  cannonade 
a  chase.  In  one  place,  a  battalion  of  retreating  horse  crushes  down  a  mass 
of  foot-soldiers,  and  over  their  mangled  bodies,  scours  away  from  that  ter 
rible  blaze  of  Duncan's  cannon.  In  another,  two  bands  of  horse  and  foot, 
stricken  with  the  panic,  and  flying  in  an  opposite  direction  from  the  field, 
became  entangled  and  rocked  to  and  fro  like  an  immense  wave,  their  arms 
glittering  like  spray.  Not  a  moment  passed  before  their  contest  was  over. 
A  wide  lane  splintered  through  their  ranks  by  the  cannon  balls,  and  paved 
with  the  faces  of  the  dead,  divided  them  into  two  bodies  again,  who  fled 
from  each  other's  sight,  as  though  a  Plague  stalked  between  them; 

It  was  at  this  moment,  when  for  the  space  of  two  miles,  the  prairie  was 

9 


74  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

littered  with  Mexican  corses,  with  fallen  banners  and  broken  arms,  that  a 
scene  took  place,  in  every  way  worthy  of  this  day  of  chivalry  and  blood. 

Arista  reined  his  white  horse  on  the  edge  of  the  chaparral,  and  beheld 
his  broken  army,  in  all  the  panic  of  a  retreat.  Upon  their  frightened 
ranks  rolled  the  full  volume  of  Duncan's  batteries.  A  space  of  earth, 
some  hundred  yards  in  extent,  was  illumined  by  the  setting  sun,  shining 
through  the  clouds.  Around  that  space  all  was  dim  and  shadowy  ;  it 
shone  from  the  twilight  of  the  field,  like  a  broach  of  gold,  set  in  a  mantle 
of  rich  brown.  Into  this  illuminated  space,  thundered  the  cannon  of  Dun 
can,  pursuing  a  body  of  Mexicans,  who,  crowding  upon  each  other,  hur 
ried  wildly  toward  the  chaparral.  You  see  the  cannon  unlimbered,  ar 
rayed  in  battle  order  ;  the  half  naked  cannoniers  are  ready  ;  in  a  moment, 
that  band  of  Mexicans,  at  least  five  hundred  in  number,  will  be  torn  by 
the  cannister,  and  blown  to  pieces  by  the  shell. 

At  this  moment,  a  solitary  horseman  breaks  from  the  Mexican  ranks, 
and  holding  a  white  flag  above  his  head,  speeds  rapidly  toward  the  fore 
most  of  the  American  cannon.  He  rides  a  beautiful  dark  bay,  whose  eye 
rolls  with  the  madness  of  battle,  as  he  sweeps  with  his  master,  right  into 
the  muzzles  of  the  formidable  battery. 

It  is  a  young  man  with  the  dark  hair  flying  back  from  his  brow,  with 
the  green  uniform,  thrown  aside  from  his  muscular  throat,  with  the  sun 
light  playing  freely  over  himself  and  his  bay  steed.  For  a  moment  the 
cannoniers  ceased,  while  a  murmur  of  admiration  ran  along  the  American 
line.  He  came  on  a  message  of  peace,  that  gallant  youth,  for  fluttering 
over  his  head  the  white  flag  stood  out  against  the  sky. 

Near  and  nearer ;  they  can  discern  his  features,  see  the  wild  light  flash 
ing  in  his  eye.  Not  fifty  yards  from  the  muzzle  of  the  foremost  cannon, 
he  thunders  on.  Look !  He  rises  in  his  stirrups,  he  flings  the  white  flag 
from  his  bosom,  he  tears  from  his  breast  another  flag — the  Tri-color  of 
Mexico  ! 

"  Now  !"  he  shouts  in  Spanish,  his  dark  face  convulsed  with  passion, 
the  frenzy  of  despair,  as  he  waved  that  flag  and  crashed  on,  to  the  very 
muzzle  of  the  cannon — "Now  !  Let  your  cannon  blaze — I  am  ready  !" 

The  cannon  spoke,  and  its  smoke  encircled  him  like  a  curtain.  Every 
man  held  his  breath  as  the  cloud  rolled  away.  The  Mexican  and  his 
horse  were  gone,  and  the  sod  was  covered  with  the  fragments  of  gory 
flesh,  mingled  with  the  shreds  of  a  tri-colored  flag. 

But  the  object  of  the  gallant  Boy,  was  gained.  The  last  of  the  retreat 
ing  Mexicans,  had  time  to  disappear  in  the  chaparral,  as  the  death  rushed 
upon  him.  Many  an  eye  was  wet  along  the  American  line,  as  among 
the  grass  appeared  that  youthful  face,  smiling  in  death  amid  the  ruins  of 
his  mangled  body,  while  far  away  into  the  crimson  cloud  rolled  the  echoes 
of  the  LAST  SHOT  OF  PALO  ALTO. 


PALO   ALTO.  75 

Night  came  down  on  Palo  Alto,  and  beside  a  grey  steed  stood  an  old 
man,  leaning  on  his  sheathed  sword,  his  uncovered  head  bent  upon  his 
breast,  as  his  large  eyes,  shone  with  unusual  light.  The  monuments  of 
the  fight — corses,  arms  and  wounded — were  scattered  around  him.  Above 
his  head,  hung  that  thin  mist,  pestilential  with  the  smell  of  gunpowder, 
and  through  its  veil  shone  the  glad  light  of  the  evening  star.  Officers  and 
soldiers  formed  a  circle  round  the  old  man,  leaning  on  his  sword.  All 
crimsoned  with  the  traces  of  the  fight,  all  darkened  by  the  stain  of  powder, 
they  stood  in  silence,  their  heads  uncovered  in  respect  to  that  old  man. 
He  drew  his  sheathed  sword  along  the  sod,  with  an  involuntary  gesture. 
His  heart  was  too  full  for  words.  That  day,  deeds  had  been  done,  which 
history  would  never  be  tired  of  telling,  deeds  that  would  make  her  say  in 
one  breath,  WASHINGTON  and  TAYLOR. 

Therefore  the  old  man  stood  in  silence,  his  heart  too  full  for  words, 
while  with  his  head  drooped,  he  mechanically  made  circles  with  the  end 
of  his  sword  on  the  cindered  sod. 

At  last  he  spoke — 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  as  the  evening  star,  like  a  good  omen,  shone  over 
his  brow — "I  think  that  we  will  reach  Fort  Brown" 

It  was  then  that  the  fullness  of  the  soldiers'  hearts,  found  vent  in  words. 
Even  as  the  soldiers  of  Napoleon  hailed  their  young  leader,  standing  amid 
the  trophies  of  battle,  by  the  name  of  the  Little  Corporal,  so  on  the  field 
of  Palo  Alto,  the  heroes  of  that  day  baptized  Zachary  Taylor  with  a 
name,  warm  from  their  hearts.  A  common  soldier,  feeling  his  heart  swell 
with  emotions  that  he  could  not  speak,  pointed  to  the  old  man,  and  blun 
dered  forth  his  admiration  in  three  words,  which  leapt  from  lip  to  lip, 
until  they  grew  into  a  thunder  shout— 

"  ROUGH  AATD  READY  !" 

Night  came  down  upon  the  beleagued  Fort,  and  the  town  of  Matamoras. 
Crowding  to  the  shore,  the  people  had  heard  that  terrible  cannonade, 
continued  for  two  hours,  and  in  the  Fort,  the  voice  of  Taylor's  guns,  came 
like  the  trumpet  peal  of  hope.  All  day  long  the  shower  of  shot  and  shell 
had  rained  its  fury  on  the  little  band,  but  now,  crowding  to  the  ramparts 
they  raised  their  voices  in  a  thunder  shout. 

A  wounded  soldier,  who  had  rent  his  way  through  the  Mexican  lines, 
came  tottering  toward  the  Fort,  shouting  as  the  blood  poured  from  his 
wounds — "  Taylor  is  coming  !  Do  not  give  it  up  now  !  The  old  man  is 
on  his  way,  and  will  be  here  !" 

Then  a  shout  went  up  again,  which  reached  the  ears  of  the  veteran 
Brown,  who  resting  in  his  rude  couch,  racked  by  pain,  lifted  up  his  head 
and  exclaimed—"  I  knew  that  he  would  come  !" 

And  by  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  and  by  the  first  gleam  of  the  Even 
ing  star,  masses  of  Mexican  cavalry  and  infantry  might  be  seen  crossing 


7g  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

the  Rio  Grande,  above  and  below  the  Fort,  their  arms  flashing  vengeance 
for  the  disgrace  of  their  flag. 

It  was  a  beautiful  thing  to  see  them  glitter  by  thousands  on  the  river, 
while  the  damsels  of  Matamoras  waved  them  farewell  with  their  white 
scarfs.  It  was  a  grand  spectacle,  their  compact  masses  of  horse,  fresh  as 
their  riders,  and  as  eager  for  battle,  march  in  battle  array,  from  the  river 
to  the  shadows  of  the  chaparral.  They  were  hurrying  to  the  aid  of 
Arista — to-morrow,  a  new  wall  of  cannon,  horses,  men  and  steel,  woven 
together,  as  with  bands  of  iron,  would  intervene  between  old  Zachary  and 
Fort  Brown.  Beautiful  it  was,  I  say,  to  see  the  going  forth  of  this 
army — 

But  the  coming  back  ? 

The  heart  grows  cold  to  think  of  it. — Angel  of  death,  hovering  over 
those  legions,  with  the  light  of  the  evening  star,  upon  your  livid  brow, 
tell  us,  have  you  the  heart  to  enter  Matamoras  now,  and  gaze  upon  those 
children,  who  will  be  fatherless  to-morrow,  upon  those  wives  who  to 
morrow  will  look  for  their  husbands,  and  find  them  floating  with  cold 
faces,  on  the  river's  wave,  or  seek  for  them  in  vain,  among  the  heaps  of 
battle  dead  ? 

The  going  forth  is  beautiful.  To  see  these  flags  flutter  so  bravely 
from  the  lances,  like  the  foliage  of  those  trees  of  death,  to  hear  the  bugles 
speak  out, — but  the  morrow  ?  The  coming  back  ?  Hark  !  through  the 
darkened  air,  did  you  not  hear  a  sound,  like  the  closing  of  a  thousand 
cofBn  lids  ? 

Through  the  midnight  darkness,  which  has  descended  upon  the  battle 
field,  the  glare  of  torches  breaks  suddenly,  like  meteors  glimmering  over 
the  abyss  of  a  swamp.  Those  torches  light  the  surgeons  on  their  way, 
as  they  pass  from  the  wounded  to  the  dead,  and  bend  over  the  mangled 
skulls  and  broken  arms — the  horrible  summing  up  of  the  great  game  of 
war. 

There  is  a  groan  in  yonder  thicket.  It  is  the  cry  of  the  wounded 
wretch,  as  the  knife  of  the  Ranchero  sinks  into  his  heart. 

A  torch  remarkable  for  its  glaring  light  shone  in  the  centre  of  the  field. 

Its  beams  lighted  the  faces  of  battle  worn  soldiers,  who  with  their  ap 
parel  rent,  their  faces  stained  with  blood,  took  counsel  with  their  General 
on  the — morrow  ! 

In  the  midst  of  that  band,  he  stood  erect,  a  plain  and  unpretending 
man,  his  faded  brown  coat  torn  in  many  places  by  the  balls  of  the  enemy, 
his  brow  uncovered,  and  his  right  hand  resting  on  the  hilt  of  his  sheathed 
sword. 

On  his  left,  distinguished  by  his  portly  form,  his  massive  features,  and 
hair  white  as  snow,  you  might  see  Colonel  Twiggs,  who  like  his  General 
had  seen  long  years  of  battle  toil. 


PALO  ALTO.  77 

By  his  side,  stood  erect,  a  white  haired  man,  the  veteran  M'Intosh. 
Near  him  seated  on  a  trunk,  his  tired  head  resting  in  his  hands,  the  brave 
Ridgely,  who  had  done  his  part  in  the  terror  and  glory  of  that  Day. 
Duncan  was  there,  covered  with  the  memorials  of  his  last  charge,  with 
Churchill  by  his  side,  and  the  other  heroes  grouped  around.  Above  their 
heads,  the  tent  canopy,  moved  to  every  impulse  of  the  breeze,  and  tri 
umphantly  in  the  light  of  the  midnight  stars  of  Palo  Alto,  waved  the 
Banner  of  the  Stars. 

"  Shall  we  go  on  !" 

A  question  to  make  men  bow  their  heads  and  think. 

By  to-morrow's  dawn  at  least  nine  thousand  men,  will  build  a  wall  of 
flame  and  steel  in  our  path.  Defeat  is  Massacre.  Victory  against  such 
tremendous  odds,  a  Miracle.  At  this  very  hour,  in  the  American  Union  at 
least  one  hundred  thousand  hearts,  are  palpitating  in  fearful  anxiety  for 
us,  afraid  that  every  moment  may  bring  the  news  of  the  utter  slaughter 
of  Taylor  and  his  Men. 

Shall  we  go  on  ? 

As  the  question  throbs  from  heart  to  heart,  the  cries  of  dying  men  are 
heard,  mingled  with  the  jackal's  howl. 

Duncan  speaks,  Twiggs  pours  forth  his  few  emphatic  words ;  Ridgely 
eloquent  with  the  fever  of  to  day's  strife  and  the  hope  of  to-morrow's 
glory,  looks  in  the  old  man's  face,  and  cries  with  impassioned  fervor — 
"  Go  on  !" 

May  and  Walker  say  nothing,  but  clutch  their  swords. 

But  there  are  other  voices  there.  Glory  we  have  won  to  day,  but  to 
morrow  ! — let  us  not  trifle  with  fate.  Entrenched  upon  this  field,  we  can 
wait  for  reinforcements.  Our  countrymen  will  hear  of  our  peril  and  our 
glory,  and  their  hearts  and  rifles  will  rush  to  the  rescue. 

As  if  from  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  Zachary  Taylor  draws  his 
sword,  half  way  from  its  sheath. 

Hark  !  that  sound — every  heart  beats,  and  those  soldiers  who  stand 
erect,  grasp  their  swords,  and  those  who  are  seated,  spring  to  their  feet. 
It  is  the  signal  gun  of  Fort  Brown. 

"  Go  on  !" — the  words  in  a  deep  whisper,  pass  from  lip  to  lip,  and 
every  eye  is  fixed  on  Taylor's  face. 

The  old  man  quietly  dropped  his  sword  to  the  sheath  : 

"TO  MORROW  NIGHT  I  WILL  BE  AT  FORT  BROWN  IF  I 
LIVE." 

At  this  moment  a  sublime  sight  was  seen.  Far  along  the  eastern  ho 
rizon  over  the  dark  chaparral,  a  wall  of  clouds,  black  as  death,  without  a 
ray  of  light,  to  break  its  monotony  of  gloom,  towers  into  the  upper  sky. 

Save  that  wall  of  blackness,  the  sky  is  clear,  glittering  over  its  awful 
dome,  with  the  serene  midnight  of  the  stars.  But  look  !  As  we  gaze 


78  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

upon  (hat  mass  of  dark  cloud,  raising  like  a  Fort  of  Death,  above  the 
gloomy  horizon,  along  its  border,  runs  a  quivering  thread  of  light.  It 
widens,  it  glows,  until  the  cloud  resembles  an  immense  castle,  illumined 
on  its  battlements,  with  the  rays  of  innumerable  torches. 

And  then,  beautiful  and  serene  over  the  top  of  the  cloud,  bursts  into 
sight  the  Moon,  shining  her  clear  calm  light  over  the  tents  and  the  ban 
ners,  over  the  cannon  and  the  tired  soldiers,  bivouacking  beneath  their 
muzzles,  over  the  encircling  chaparral,  and  the  blasted  field,  over  the 
dying  and  dead  of  PALO  ALTO, 

V.— KESACA  UE  LA  PALMA. 

Halting  on  the  edge  of  the  chaparral.  The  rein  thrown  carelessly  on 
the  neck  of  his  grey  horse,  Zachary  Taylor  looked  back,  and  surveyed 
the  field  of  Palo  Alto. 

If  the  view  had  been  ghastly  by  moonlight,  it  was  horrible  in  the  calm 
clear  light  of  that  cloudless  day.  The  Mexicans  had  fled  through  the 
mazes  of  the  southern  chaparral.  From  that  wall  of  prickly  pear, — 
look  to  the  south  of  Taylor  and  you  will  see  it — flashed  the  bayonets  of 
the  American  army.  Certain  companies  of  the  heroic  band  were  search 
ing  the  wilderness  for  traces  of  the  foe,  while  the  main  body  of  the  army 
halted  on  the  southern  verge  of  the  prairie,  the  chaparral  darkening  be 
hind  their  cannon  and  bayonets. 

It  was  at  the  moment,  that  General  Taylor,  reining  his  steed,  amid  the 
tall  rank  grass,  near  the  wagons  of  the  train,  surveyed  the  field  of  Palo 
Alto.  A  clear,  bracing  morning,  with  the  song  of  birds  in  the  air,  and 
beautiful  prairie  flowers  blooming  beneath  his  feet. 

The  wide  field  lay  calmly  beneath  the  smile  of  the  morning  sun. 
Like  an  immense  scar,  the  cinders  of  the  prairie  fire,  blackened  the  centre 
of  the  plain.  Here  and  there,  men  with  spades  in  their  hands,  moved 
to  and  fro — they  were  digging  rude  graves  for  their  dead. 

But  the  horses,  mangled  in  masses,  and  stretched  far  over  the  plain, 
the  dead  men,  piled  in  heaps,  their  broken  limbs,  and  cold  faces,  distinctly 
seen  by  the  light  of  the  morning  sun,  still  remained,  amid  the  grass  and 
flowers,  silent  memorials  of  yesterday's  Harvest  of  Death. 

Even  the  old  General  could  not  repress  a  shudder,  as  he  gazed  upon 
the  terrible  evidence  of  Duncan's  last  fire — a  line  of  dead  men  and  horses, 
darkening  far  away  to  the  left. 

At  this  moment,  when  in  presence  of  the  entire  army,  Taylor  read  the 
alphabet  of  blood,  upon  the  battle-field,  was  selected  by  Fate — by  Provi 
dence — by  God — for  a  scene  of  painful  and  singular  interest. 

A  young  soldier,  mounted  on  a  black  horse,  and  covered  with  the  traces 
of  the  fight, — the  powder  stain  and  the  crimson  drops  of  human  hearts 
— rode  from  the  chaparral  and  dismounted  near  the  General.  He  flung 
the  reins  on  the  neck  of  his  steed,  and  stood  for  a  moment,  regarding 


RESACA  DE  LA  PALMA.  79 

that  sad  prospect  of  the  battle  field.  As  his  dilating  eye  shone  with  deep, 
with  bitter  thoughts,  from  the  shadow  of  his  downcastbrow,  his  muscular 
figure,  attired  in  a  plain  blue  frock  coat,  with  a  plain  row  of  gold  buttons, 
presented  a  striking  image  of  chivalric  manhood. 

Worn  down,  with  the  battle  toil  of  the  last  twenty-four  hours,  with  the 
incessant  hurrying  to  and  fro,  the  severe  duty  that  left  no  time  for  food 
or  slumber,  the  brave  fellow,  had  ridden  to  the  rear,  to  take  some  refresh 
ment,  and  an  hour's  repose. 

The  eye  of  the  General  wandered  from  the  battle-field,  to  the  form  of 
the  young  soldier,  and  an  expression  of  admiration  lighted  up  his  bronzed 
face.  It  was  the  gallant  Lieutenant,  who  the  day  before,  in  that  breathless 
moment,  before  the  first  fire,  had  ridden  into  the  muzzles  of  Mexican 
cannon,  and  with  cool  composure  reconnoitered  their  array — The  Hero, 
BLAKE. 

Taylor  looks  upon  him,  as  he  is  in  the  act  of  receiving  a  cup  of  water 
from  the  hands  of  a  soldier,  and  turns  his  eyes  to  the  field  again.  Scarce 
a  moment  passes,  and  then  his  gaze  seeks  the  hero's  face  :once  more. 
Where  does  he  behold  him  ? 

Writhing  on  the  sod,  in  all  the  agony  of  a  mortal  wound,  his  body  rent 
upward  by  a  pistol  ball  ! 

Yes,  as  he  took  the  cup  of  water,  he  flung  his  holsters  on  the 
ground.  One  of  the  pistols  exploded,  even  as  it  struck  the  ground,  and 
laid  him  quivering  on  the  sod,  beside  its  smoking  tube. 

"  Alas  !"  cried  the  brave  fellow,  writhing  in  his  death  agony — "  Alas  ! 
That  I  did  not  fall  in  the  battle  of  yesterday  !" 

For  a  few  hours  he  lingered,  and  then  was  clay.  As  he  yielded  his 
spirit,  the  thunder  of  the  cannonade,  echoing  from  the  south,  sung  his 
death-hymn. — There  came  a  day,  when  Philadelphia  put  on  mourning  for 
her  son,  and  brought  his  dead  body  home,  amid  the  tribute  of  a  People's 
tears. — 

While  Zachary  Taylor  gazed  upon  his  prostrate  form,  the  moment 
after  he  fell,  there  came  from  the  south,  the  clear,  deep  crack  of  a  rifle, 
that  sound  spoke  to  the  old  man's  heart.  It  was  the  first  shot  of  the 
Twin-Sister  of  Palo  Alto — RESACA  DE  LA  PALMA. 

Presently  there  appeared  on  the  verge  of  the  chaparral,  the  form  of  a 
sunburnt  soldier,  dressed  in  a  green  ranger's  frock,  and  mounted  on  a  steed 
that  flung  the  foam  from  his  flanks,  as  he  whirled  his  rider  along  to  Gene 
ral  Taylor's  side. 

It  was  Captain  WALKER,  bearing  to  the  old  commander,  the  first  Intelli 
gence  of  Arista  and  his  army. 

Away  through  the  wilderness,  along  the  road  that  leads  to  Fort  Brown, 
until  we  behold  the  Mexican  army. 

Forth  from  his  splendid  tent,  erected  in  the  depths  of  chaparral,  issued 


gn  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

Arista,  his  form  blazing  with  stars  and  orders,  while  his  dark  face,  varied 
by  the  well-known  red  moustache,  manifested  not  so  much  chagrin  for 
yesterday's  defeat,  as  hope  for  the  triumph  of  to-day. 

The  white  horse  splendidly  caparisoned,  the  saddle  glittering  like  one 
mass  of  silver,  awaits  his  master.  Bounding  into  the  saddle,  he  dashes 
through  the  paths  of  the  chaparral,  and  surveys  his  formidable  army.  It 
must  be  confessed  that  he  had  every  reason  for  that  feeling  of  pride,  which 
gave  such  a  glow  to  his  face,  such  fire  in  his  eyes.  Behind  him  was  seen 
the  glittering  circle  of  his  staff  officers,  all  handsomely  mounted  and  gaily 
appareled.  Ampudia,  with  his  sinister  look  and  lowering  brow,  alone 
seemed  to  detract  from  the  chivalry  of  that  warrior's  band.  There,  too, 
bestriding  an  elegant  brown  charger,  whose  glossy  skin  shone  like  velvet 
in  the  morning  light,  was  seen  the  graceful  LA  VEGA,  slender  in  form,  rich 
olive  in  complexion,  luxuriant  in  his  dark  hair,  and  silken  beard,  the  very 
ideal  of  a  Castilian  cavalier  of  old. 

Wherever  Arista  looked,  to  the  right  or  the  left,  forward  or  in  the  rear, 
the  prickly  pear  bore  a  dazzling  fruit,  looking  very  much  like  the  sharp  steel 
of  the  lance,  the  deadly  point  of  the  bayonet.  Horses,  too,  in  solid 
legions,  backed  by  brave  riders,  who,  refreshed  by  food  and  slumber,  were 
eager  to  retrieve  the  fortunes  of  yesterday.  And  as  Arista  passed,  a  half 
suppressed  shout  was  heard,  and  the  full  bands  clanged  out  their  battle 
music. 

This  was  the  manner  in  which  the  Mexicans  were  prepared  for  battle. 
Behold  their  death-like,  yes,  we  must  confess  it,  their  terrible  array. 

Across  the  road,  leading  to  Fort  Brown,  a  ravine  extends  near  a  hundred 
feet  wide,  and  four  feet  high.  In  the  rainy  season,  the  ravine  becomes  a 
torrent,  it  overflows  the  road,  and  dashes  away  to  the  Rio  Grande.  Even 
now  in  its  depths  sparkle  lakelets  of  clear  deep  water,  and  on  its  southern 
bank,  the  chaparral  forms  an  impenetrable  wall. 

The  ravine  is  called  RESACA  DE  LA  PALMA. 

Along  this  ravine,  and  on  either  side  of  the  road,  the  Mexicans  extend, 
nine  thousand  strong,  a  crescent  of  cannon  and  horses,  men  and  steel. 

One  line  is  hidden  behind  yonder  bank,  another  shrouds  its  cannon,  its 
horses,  its  men,  beneath  the  shadows  of  the  southern  chaparral. 

In  the  centre  of  each  line  the  battery  glooms  :  yonder,  to  the  right  of 
the  first  line,  you  see  another  group  of  these  death  engines. 

From  an  open  space,  near  the  road,  Arista  gazed  upon  the  battle  array, 
and  turns  with  a  smile  to  his  general.  That  smile  means  much,  it  means 
that  the  American  flag  to  day  will  bow  before  the  flag  of  Mexico,  in  the 
depths  of  that  ravine,  whose  banks  shall  swell  with  a  torrent,  not  of  water, 
but  of  blood. 

For,  as  you  may  see,  old  Zachary  Taylor,  in  order  to  reach  Fort  Brown, 
must  pass  along  the  road,  cut  a  way  with  his  seventeen  hundred  men, 
through  the  breasts  of  some  nine  thousand  Mexicans,  who  have 


RESACA  DE  LA  PALMA.  81 

chosen  their  position  at  leisure,  and  whose  cannon  commands  the  road  on 
either  side. 

And  there,  eager  to  meet  the  old  war-horse,  who  foiled  them  yesterday, 
stands  arrayed  in  battle  order,  the  bravest  band  of  the  whole  army,  iron 
men,  hardened  by  the  tropical  sun,  and  the  battle  blaze,  the  heroes  of  9, 
hundred  civil  conflicts,  the  veteran  Battalion  of  Tampico.  Above  theic 
heads  waves  their  beautiful  banner,  embroidered  by  the  hands  of  beautr 
ful  women,  and  sanctified  by  the  prayers  of  nuns,  bearing  beneath  the 
eagle  and  serpent,  the  simple  legend  :  BATTALON — GUARDA  COSTA — DE 
TAMPICO. 

Gazing  on  his  army,  Arista  sent  his  commands  to  the  menials  of  his 
camp,  to  bring  forth  his  choicest  plate,  to  bury  his  wines  in  ice,  and  to 
light  the  fires,  in  order  to  prepare  the  Festival  of  victory,  by  the  setting, 
of  the  sun. 

It  was  four  o'clock,  when,  with  a  cloudless  sky  above,  and  the  chaparraV 
far  and  wide,  thronged  with  Mexican  legions,  the  battle  began  its  bloody 
career. 

It  was  four  o'clock,  when  Arista  saw  advancing  from  the  opposita 
thickets,  a  bluff  old  warrior,  dressed  in  a  brown  coat,  with  a  grey  steed 
beneath  him.  The  sun  shone  clearly  upon  the  old  warrior  as  he  came  on, 
and  Arista  knew  that  the  hour  was  near. 

Hark  !  The  tramp  as  of  a  thousand  warriors  thundering  through  the 
northern  chaparral,  and  as  you  listen,  it  grows  near  and  nearer — to  the 
right,  to  the  left,  and  yonder  in  the  front  of  the  ravine,  the  bayonets  come 
dazzling  into  the  sun. 

There  rides  Captain  Walker  at  the  head  of  his  Texian  band,  there 
Ridgely  glorious  with  the  mantle  of  the  fallen  Ringgold,  comes  with  his 
cannon  to  battle,  while  in  the  front,  those  bayonets,  bursting  like  lightning 
from  the  bushes  move  rapidly  toward  the  ravine. 

Sixteen  hundred  men  advance  against  nine  thousand — it  is  a  moment  ot 
breathless  suspense. 

All  at  once,  as  hushing  your  breath,  with  fear  of  the  tremendous  result* 
of  this  fight,  you  watch  tremblingly  for  its  commencement,  all  at  once, 
the  Third,  Fourth  and  Fifth  regiments  rush  on,  their  bayonets  forming  a 
crescent  of  dazzling  steel,  above  their  heads. 

They  line  the  bank  of  the  ravine,  and  in  a  moment  the  copper  hail 
rushes  through  their  ranks,  and  the  white  cloud  of  battle  shuts  them  in 
From  the  northern  bank  of  the  Resaca  de  la  Palma,  from  the  southerc 
wall  of  the  chaparral,  pours  the  storm  of  the  Mexican  cannon,  while  Ridgely 
is  rushing  to  the  encounter,  and  Duncan  unlimbering  his  pieces,  answers 
roar  with  roar,  and  lights  the  field  with  his  blaze. 

From  the  verge  of  the  ravine  pours  the  steady  fire  of  our  musquetry 
our  men  come  crowding  to  the  attack,  they  spring  upon  the  Mexican 
bayonets,  they  enter  the  bed  of  the  Ravine,  and  the  chaparral,  which  not 

10 


82  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAILOR. 

five  minutes  ago,  was  quiet  as  the  tomb,  now  blazes  and  howls  like  a  vol 
cano  bursting  suddenly  from  the  waters  of  a  waveless  sea. 

Through  the  folds  of  smoke,  you  may  see  Ridgely's  men,  their  bronzed 
forms  bared  to. the  waist,  plying  their  deadly  task.  Around  his  battery 
sweep  the  bayonets  of  the  Fifth  infantry,  with  the  grey-haired  M'Intosh 
in  their  midst — yonder,  on  the  edge  of  the  ravine,  Duncan,  with  his  can 
non  ready  for  the  conflict,  pauses  in  his  fire,  unable  to  distinguish  friend 
from  foe,  in  the  whirlpool  of  the  fight,  which  swells  and  rages  through  the 
deadly  pass. 

His  grey  eye  blazing  with  the  excitement  of  the  battle,  Zachary  Taylor 
sat  quietly  on  his  grey  steed,  with  the  cannon  balls  of  the  enemy  tearing 
the  earth  all  around  him,  and  felt  the  moment  for  a  decisive  blow  had 
come. 

Amid  the  smoke  and  flame  that  rolled  and  blazed  above  the  deadly 
ravine,  he  clearly  saw  the  whirlpool  of  the  fight. 

On  to  the  front  bank,  pressed  the  American  infantry,  pouring  the  blaze 
of  musquetry  into  the  faces  of  the  Mexicans,  and  then,  hurling  their  solid 
force  into  the  ravine,  as  one  man,  they  charged  them  home.  On  either 
side  their  bayonets  were  seen  glittering  above  the  battle  clouds.  From 
the  rear  ridge  the  most  formidable  battery  in  the  second  line  of  the  Mexi 
can  array,  swept  the  air  with  a  shower  of  poisonous  copper  balls.  Ridgely's 
blaze  made  answer,  and  Duncan,  arranging  his  pieces  in  battle  order,  sent 
his  cannon  shout  thundering  through  the  darkening  cloud. 

Beneath  this  pall  of  smoke  and  flame,  this  canopy  of  whirling  balls, 
the  American  infantry  hurling  themselves  into  the  ravine,  drove  back  the 
foe.  Charging  them  with  bayonets,  cutting  them  down  with  their  short 
swords,  they  fought  for  every  in^h  of  ground,  and  fought  everywhere,  on 
the  earth  that  rocked  with  the  cannon  thunder,  in  the  lagoons  that  blushed 
with  blood,  beneath  the  banks,  where  the  dying  and  the  dead  began  to 
swell  in  ghastly  heaps.  It  was,  indeed,  a  bloody  contest.  Here  the  vete 
rans  of  Mexico,  recoiling  one  moment,  only  to  roll  back  again  in  all  the 
terror  of  blaze  and  bayonet — there,  the  Americans  advancing  without  a 
shout,  never  heeding  for  a  moment,  their  comrades,  who  with  arms  torn 
off"  and  heads  unroofed,  sank  in  mangled  masses,  at  every  step,  but  holding 
on  their  way,  every  bayonet  charging  against  the  bayonet  of  an  enemy, 
every  eye  glaring  steadily  into  the  face  of  a  foe. 

Amid  the  scene,  like  wrecks  on  the  waves  of  a  stormy  sea,  tossed  to 
and  fro,  the  tri-color  of  Mexico  and  the  Banner  of  the  Stars. 

Still  from  the  rear  ridge,  swept  the  concentrated  fury  of  the  Mexican 
batteries,  their  flame  and  copper  hail  curtaining  the  troops  below,  as  again 
and  again  they  rushed  to  the  charge. 

Taylor  saw  it  all,  and  knew  the  moment  for  the  blow  had  come— the 
blow  which  was  to  decide  the  battle,'  and  hurl  the  Mexican  army  back 
into  the  Rio  Grande. 


RESACA  DE   LA  PALMA.  83 

You  may  see  him  bending  over  the  neck  of  his  steed,  his  battle-worn 
face  glowing  redly  in  each  flash,  as  his  eye  roves  from  point  to  point,  and 
at  a  glance,  takes  in  the  panorama  of  blood. 

At  this  moment,  he  sent  to  the  rear  for  an  officer  of  the  dragoons,  and 
awaited  his  appearance  in  undisguised  suspense. 

There  was  a  day,  when  an  old  man  with  white  hair,  sat  alone  in  the 
small  chamber  of  a  National  Mansion,  his  spare  but  muscular  figure  rest 
ing  on  an  arm  chair,  his  hands  clasped,  and  his  deep  blue  eyes  gazing 
through  the  window  upon  the  cloudless  winter  sky.  The  brow  of  the  old 
man,  furrowed  with  wrinkles,  his  hair  rising  in  straight  masses,  white  as 
the  driven  snow,  his  sunken  cheeks  traversed  by  marked  lines,  and  thiu 
lips,  fixedly  compressed,  all  announced  a  long  and  stormy  life.  All  the 
marks  of  an  Iron  Will  were  written  upon  his  face. 

His  name,  I  need  not  tell  you,  was  Andrew  Jackson,  and  he  sat  alone 
in  the  White  House. 

A  visitor  entered  without  being  announced,  and  stood  before  the  Presi 
dent  in  the  form  of  a  boy  of  nineteen,  clad  in  a  coarse  round  jacket  and 
trousers,  and  covered  from  head  to  foot  with  mud.  As  he  stood  before 
the  President,  cap  in  hand,  the  dark  hair  falling  in  damp  clusters  about 
his  white  forehead,  the  old  man  could  not  help  surveying  at  a  rapid  glance, 
the  muscular  beauty  of  his  figure,  the  broad  chest,  the  sinewy  arms,  the 
head  placed  proudly  on  the  firm  shoulders. 

"  Your  business  ?" — said  the  old  man,  in  his  short,  abrupt  way. 

"  There  is  a  Lieutenancy  vacant  in  the  Dragoons.  Will  you  give  it 
to  me  ?" 

And  dashing  back  the  dark  hair  which  fell  over  his  face,  the  Boy,  as 
if  frightened  at  his  boldness,  bowed  low  before  the  President. 

The  old  man  could  not  restrain  that  smile.  It  wreathed  his  firm  lip, 
and  shone  from  his  clear  eyes. 

*«  You  enter  my  chamber  unannounced,  covered  from  head  to  foot  with 
mnd — you  tell  me,  that  a  Lieutenancy  is  vacant,  and  ask  me  to  give  it  to 
you. — Who  are  you?" 

"  Charles  May  !" — The  Boy  did  not  bow  this  time,  but  with  his  right 
hand  on  his  hip,  stood  like  a  wild  young  Indian,  erect,  in  the  presence  of 
the  President. 

•'  What  claims  have  you  to  a  commission  ?" — again  the  Hero  surveyed 
him,  and  again  he  faintly  smiled. 

"  Such  as  you  see  !"  exclaimed  the  boy,  as  his  dark  eyes  shone  with 
that  dare-devil  light,  while  his  young  form  swelled  in  every  muscle,  as 
with  the  conscious  pride  of  his  manly  strength  and  beauty.  "  Would 
you — "  he  bent  forward,  sweepjng  aside  his  curls  once  more,  while  a 
smile  began  to  break  over  his  lips — "  Would  you  like  to  see  me  ride  ? 
My  horse  is  at  the  door.  You  see,  I  came  post  haste  for  this  commission." 


84  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

Silently  the  old  man  followed  the  Boy,  and  together  they  went  forth 
from  the  White  House.  It  was  a  clear,  cold  winter's  day  ;  the  wind 
lossed  the  President's  white  hairs,  and  the  leafless  trees  stood  boldly  out 
against  the  deep  blue  sky.  Before  the  portals  of  the  White  House,  with 
the  rein  thrown  loosely  on  his  neck,  stood  a  magnificent  horse,  his  dark 
hide  smoking  with  foam.  He  uttered  a  shrill  neigh  as  his  Boy-Master 
sprang  with  a  bound  into  the  saddle,  and  in  a  flash  was  gone,  skimming 
like  a  swallow  down  the  road,  his  mane  and  tail  streaming  in  the  breeze. 

The  old  man  looked  after  them,  the  Horse  and  his  Rider,  and  knew  not 
which  to  admire  most,  the  athletic  beauty  of  the  boy,  or  the  tempestuous 
vigor  of  the  horse. 

Thrice  they  threaded  the  avenues  in  front  of  the  White  House,  and  at 
last  stood  panting  before  the  President,  the  boy  leaning  over  the  neck  of 
his  steed,  as  he  coolly  exclaimed — "  Well — how  do  you  like  me  ?" 

"Do  you  think  you  could  kill  an  Indian?"  the  President  said,  taking 
him  by  the  hand,  as  he  leapt  from  his  horse. 

"  Aye — and  eat  him  afterwards  !"  cried  the  boy,  ringing  out  his  fierce 
laugh,  as  he  read  his  fate  in  the  old  man's  eyes. 

"  You  had  better  come  in  and  get  your  Commission ;"  and  the  Hero 
of  New  Orleans  led  the  way  into  the  White  House. 

There  came  a  night,  when  an  old  man — President  no  longer — sat  in  the 
silent  chamber  of  his  Hermitage  home,  a  picture  of  age,  trembling  on  the 
verge  of  Eternity.  The  light  that  stood  upon  his  table,  revealed  his 
shrunken  form,  resting  against  the  pillows  which  cushioned  his  arm  chair, 
and  the  death-like  pallour  of  his  venerable  face.  In  that  face,  with  its 
white  hair  and  massive  forehead,  everything  seemed  already  dead,  except 
the  eyes.  Their  deep  grey-blue  shone  with  the  fire  of  New  Orleans,  as 
the  old  man,  with  his  long  white  fingers,  grasped  a  letter  post-marked 
"  Washington." 

"  They  ask  me  to  designate  the  man  who  shall  lead  our  army,  in  case 
the  annexation  of  Texas  brings  on  a  war  with  Mexico — "  his  voice,  deep- 
toned  and  thrilling,  even  in  that  hour  of  decrepitude  and  decay,  rung 
through  the  silence  of  the  chamber.  "  There  is  only  one  man  who  can 
do  it,  and  his  name  is  ZACHARY  TAYLOR." 

It  was  a  dark  hour,  when  this  Boy  and  this  General,  both  appointed  at 
the  suggestion  or  by  the  voice  of  the  Man  of  the  Hermitage,  met  in  the 
battle  of  Resaca  de  la  Palma. 

By  the  blaze  of  cannon,  and  beneath  the  canopy  of  battle  smoke,  we 
will  behold  the  meeting. 

"  Captain  May,  you  must  take  that  battery  !" 

As  the  old  man,  uttered  these  words,  he  pointed  far  across  the  ravine 


RESACA  DE  LA  PALMA.  85 

with  his  sword.  It  was  like  the  glare  of  a  volcano  —  the  steady  blaze  of 
that  battery,  pouring  from  the  darkness  of  the  chaparral. 

Before  him,  summoned  by  his  command,  from  the  rear,  rose  the  form 
of  a  splendid  soldier,  whpse  hair  waving  in  long  masses,  swept  his  broad 
shoulders,  while  his  beard,  fell  over  his  muscular  chest.  Hair  and  beard 
as  dark  as  midnight,  framed  a  determined  face,  surmounted  by  a  small  cap, 
glittering  with  a  single  golden  tassel.  The  young  warrior,  bestrode  a 
magnificent  charger,  broad  in  the  chest,  small  in  the  head,  delicate  in  each 
slender  limb,  and  with  the  nostrils  quivering  as  though  they  shot  forth, 
jets  of  flame.  That  steed  was  black  as  death. 

Without  a  word,  the  soldier  turned  to  his  men. 

Eighty-four  forms,  with  throats  and  breasts  bare,  eighty-our  battle  horses, 
eighty-four  sabres,  that  rose  in  the  clutch  of  naked  arms,  and  flashed 
their  lightning  over  eighty-four  faces,  knit  in  every  feature  with  battle-fire. 

"  Men,  follow  !"  shouted  the  young  Commander,  who  had  been  created 
a  soldier  by  the  hand  of  Jackson,  as  his  tall  form,  rose  in  the  stirrups,  and 
the  battle  breeze  played  with  his  long  black  hair. 

There  was  no  resp'onse  in  words,  but  you  should  have  seen  those  horses 
quiver  beneath  the  spur,  and  spring  and  launch  away  !  Down  upon  the 
sod,  with  one  terrible  beat,  came  the  sound  of  their  hoofs,  while  through 
the  <  "r,  rose  in  glittering  circles,  those  battle  scimitars. 

Four  yards  in  front,  rode  May,  himself  and  his  horse,  the  object  of  a 
thousand  eyes,  so  certain  was  the  death,  that  gloomed  before  him,  proudly 
in  his  warrior  beauty,  he  backed  that  steed,  his  hair,  floating  beneath  his 
cap,  in  massy  curls  upon  the  wind. 

He  turns  his  head  ;  his  men  see  his  face,  knit  in  the  lip,  and  woven  in 
the  brow — they  feel  the  fire  of  his  eyes — they  hear,  not  men  forward ! 
but  Men,  follow;  and  away,  like,  like  a  huge  battle  engine,  composed  of 
eighty-four  men  and  horses,  woven  together  by  swords — away  and  on 
they  dash. 

They  near  the  ravine ;  old  Taylor  follows  them,  with  hushed  breath, 
aye,  clutching  his  sword  hlit,  he  sees  the  golden  tassel  of  May,  gleaming 
in  the  cannon  flash. 

They  are  on  the  verge  of  the  ravine,  May  still  in  the  front,  his  charger, 
flinging  the  earth,  from  beneath  him,  with  colossal  leaps,  when  from 
among  the  cannon,  starts  up,  a  half-clad  figure,  red  with  blood  and  be 
grimed  with  powder. 

It  is  Ridgely,  who  to  day  has  sworn,  to  wear  the  Mantle  of  Ringgold, 
and  to  wear  it  well  !  At  once  his  eyes,  catch  the  light  now  blazing  in  the 
eyes  of  May,  springing  to  the  cannon,  he  shouts — 

"  One  moment,  my  comrade  !  And  I  will  draw  their  fire  !" 

The  word  is  not  passed  from  his  lips,  when  his  cannon  speak  out,  to 
the  battery  across  the  ravine.  His  flash,  his  smoke,  have  not  gone,  when 


86  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

hark !     Did  you  hear  that  storm  of  copper  balls,  clatter  against  his  can 
non, — did  you  see  it  dig  the  earth,  beneath  the  hoofs  of  May's  squadron. 

"  Men,  follow  !" — Do  you  see  that  face,  gleaming  with  battle  fire,  that 

scimiter,  cutting  its  glittering  circle  in   the   air  ?     Those   men,  can   hold 

their  shouts  no  longer.     Rending  the  air  with  cries — hark  !  The  whole 

•army  echo  them — they  strike  their  spurs,  and  worried  into  madness,  their 

horses  whirl  on,  and  thunder  away,  to  the  deadly  ravine. 

The  old  man,  Taylor  said  after  the  battle,  that  he  never  felt  his  heart 
beat,  as  it  did  then. 

For  it  was  a  glorious  sight  to  see,  that  young  man,  MAY,  at  the  head 
of  his  squadron,  dashing  across  the  ravine,  four  yards  in  advance  of  his 
foremost  man,  while  long  and  dark  behind  him,  was  stretched  the  solid 
line  of  warriors  and  their  steeds. 

Through  the  windows  of  the  clouds  some  gleams  of  sunlight  fall — they 
light  the  golden  tassel  on  the  cap,  they  glitter  on  the  upraised  sword,  they 
illumine  the  dark  horse,  and  his  rider,  with  their  warm  glow,  they  reveal 
the  battery,  you  see  it,  above  the  farther  bank  of  the  ravine,  frowning 
death  from  every  muzzle. 

Near  and  nearer,  up  and  on  !  Never  heed  the  Death  before  you,  though 
it  is  certain.  Never  mind  the  leap,  though  it  is  terrible.  But  up  the 
bank  and  over  the  cannon — hurrah  !  At  this  dread  moment,  just  as  his 
horse  rises  for  the  charge,  MAY  turns  and  sees  the  sword  of  the  brave 
INGE  on  his  right,  turns  again  and  reads  his  own  soul  written  in  the  fire 
of  SACKETT'S  eye. 

To  his  Men  once  more  he  turns,  his  hair  floating  back  behind  him,  he 
points  to  the  cannon,  to  the  steep  bank  and  the  certain  death,  and  as 
though  inviting  them,  one  and  all,  to  his  Bridal  Feast,  he  says — 

"  COME  !" 

They  did  come.  It  would  have  made  your  blood  dance  to  see  it.  As 
one  man,  they  whirled  up  the  bank,  following  May's  sword  as  they  would 
a  banner,  and  striking  madly  home  as  they  heard — through  the  roar  of 
battle  they  heard  it — that  word  of  frenzy — "  COME  !" 

As  one  mass  of  bared  chests,  leaping  horses,  and  dazzling  scimitars, 
they  charged  upon  the  bank ;  the  cannon's  fire  rushed  into  their  faces — 
INGE,  even  as  his  shout  rang  on  the  air,  was  laid  a  mangled  thing  beneath 
his  steed,  his  throat  torn  open  by  a  cannon  shot,  Sackett  was  buried  be 
neath  his  horse,  and  seven  dragoons  fell  at  the  battery's  muzzles,  their 
blood  and  brains  whirling  into  their  comrades  eyes. 

Still  May  is  yonder,  above  the  cloud,  his  horse  rioting  over  heaps  of 
dead,  as  with  his  sabre,  circling  round  his  flowing  hair,  he  cuts  his  way 
through  the  living  wall,  and  says  to  his  comrades— Come  ! 

All  around  him,  friend  and  foe,  their  swords  locked  together — yonder 
the  blaze  of  musquetry  showering  the  iron  hail  upon  his  band — beneath 


RESACA  DE   LA  PALMA.  87 

his  horse's  feet  the  deadly  cannon  and  the  ghastly  corse,  still  that  young 
soldier  riots  on,  for  Taylor  has  said,  Silence  that  battery,  and  he  will  do  it. 

The  Mexicans  are  driven  from  their  guns  ;  their  cannon  are  silenced, 
and  May's  heroic  band,  scattering  among  the  mazes  of  the  chaparral,  are 
entangled  in  a  wall  of  bayonets.  Once  more  the  combat  deepens,  and 
dyes  the  sod  in  blood.  Hedged  in  by  that  wall  of  steel,  May  gathers 
eight  of  his  men,  and  hews  his  way  back  toward  the  captured  battery. 
As  his  charger  rears,  his  sword  circles  above  his  head,  and  sinks  blow 
after  blow  into  the  foemen's  throats.  To  the  left  a  shout  is  heard  ;  the 
Americans,  led  on  by  Graham  and  Pleasanton  and  Winship,  have  silenced 
the  battery  there,  while  the  whole  fury  of  the  Mexican  army,  seems  con 
centrated  to  crush  May  and  his  band. 

As  he  went  through  their  locked  ranks,  so  he  comes  back.  Every 
where  his  men  know  him  by  his  hair,  waving  in  dark  masses,  his  golden 
tinselled  cap,  his  sword, — they  know  it  too,  and  wherever  it  falls,  hear 
the  gurgling  groan  of  mortal  agony. 

Back  to  the  captured  cannon  he  cuts  his  way,  and  on  the  brink  of  the 
ravine  beholds  a  sight  that  fires  his  blood. 

A  solitary  Mexican  stands  there,  reaching  forth  his  arms,  in  all  the 
frenzy  of  a  brave  man's  despair,  he  entreats  his  countrymen  to  turn,  to 
man  the  battery  once  more,  and  hurl  its  fury  on  the  foe.  They  shrink 
back  appalled,  before  that  dark  horse,  and  its  rider,  May  !  The  Mexican, 
a  gallant  young  man,  whose  handsome  features  can  scarce  be  distinguished 
on  account  of  the  blood  which  covers  them,  while  his  rent  uniform  bears 
testimony  to  his  deeds,  in  that  day's  carnage,  clenches  his  hand,  as  he 
flings  his  curse  in  the  face  of  his  flying  countrymen,  and  then,  lighted  match 
in  hand,  springs  to  the  cannon. 

A  moment  and  its  fire  will  scatter  ten  American  soldiers  into  the  dust. 

Even  as  the  brave  Mexican  bends  near  the  cannon,  the  dark  charger, 
with  one  tremendous  leap  is  there,  and  the  sword  of  May  is  circling  over 
his  head. 

"  Yield  !"  shouted  the  voice,  which  only  a  few  moments  ago,  when 
rushing  to  death,  said — "  Come  !" 

The  Mexican  beheld  the  gallant  form  before  him,  and  handed  Captain 
May  his  sword. 

"  General  La  Vega  is  a  prisoner  !"  he  said,  and  stood  with  folded  arms, 
amid  the  corses  of  his  mangled  soldiers. 

You  may  see  May  deliver  his  prisoner  into  the  charge  of  the  brave 
Lieutenant  Stephens,  who — when  Inge  fell — dashed  bravely  on. 

Then  would  you  look  for  May  once  more,  gaze  through  that  wall  of 
bayonets,  beneath  that  gloomy  cloud,  and  behold  him  crashing  into  the 
whirlpool  of  the  fight,  his  long  hair,  his  sweeping  beard,  and  sword  that 
never  for  an  instant  stays  its  lightning  career,  making  him  look  like  the 
embodied  Demon  of  this  battle  day. 


88  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

In  the  roar  of  the  battle  behold  this  picture.  Where  May  dashed  lik« 
a  thunderbolt  from  his  side,  General  Taylor,  in  his  familiar  brown  coat, 
still  remains.  Near  him,  gazing  on  the  battle  with  interest  keen  as  hi« 
own,  the  stout  form,  the  stern  visage  of  his  brother  soldier  Twiggs.  They 
have  followed  with  flashing  eyes,  the  course  of  May,  they  have  seen  him 
charge,  and  seen  his  men  and  horses  hurled  back  in  their  blood,  while 
still  he  thundered  on.  At  this  moment,  the  brave  LA  VEGA  is  led  into 
the  presence  of  Taylor,  his  arms  folded  over  his  breast,  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  ground 

As  the  noble-hearted  General  expresses  his  sorrow,  that  the  captive's 
fate  has  fallen  on  one  so  brave,  as,  in  obedience  to  the  command  of  Twiggs, 
the  soldiers,  arranged  in  battle  order,  salute  the  Prisoner  with  presented 
arms,  there  comes  rushing  to  the  scene  the  form  of  May,  mounted  on  his 
well-known  charger. 

"  General,  you  told  me  to  silence  that  battery.     I  have  done  it !' 

— He  placed  in  the  hands  of  Zachary  Taylor,  the  sword  of  the  brava 
La  Vega. 

Again  the  contest  thickens  in  the  ravine,  and  once  more  the  brave  Mex> 
icans  come  swarming  to  the  rescue.  Around  their  batteries  they  gather 
fighting  in  sullen  silence  about  their  voiceless  guns,  and  through  the  whiti 
smoke  you  behold  gleaming  into  light  the  bayonets  of  the  Fifth  Regiment. 
Scarcely  have  they  rushed  with  one  impulse  and  one  shout,  upon  the 
batteries,  when  Colonel  Belknap  at  the  head  of  the  Eighth,  is  seen  mov 
ing  along  the  road — he  comes,  waving  the  Banner  of  the  Stars  in  his  hand 
— a  whispered  word  to  the  men  about  him,  and  up  the  bank,  and  into  the 
ranks  of  the  Tampico  veterans — hand  to  hand,  foot  to  foot,  eye  blazing  in 
eye,  they  engage  in  the  deadly  conflict. 

These  men  of  Tampico  are  no  cowards.  They  receive  the  Americans 
with  the  bayonet,  and  fighting  over  their  silenced  guns,  stab  them  one  by 
one,  with  the  knife.  A  shout — a  blaze  !  Colonel  Belknap  is  down,  th« 
staff  of  his  standard  broken  by  a  ball ;  a  cry  of  vengeance  thunders  through 
the  battle  air. 

Then  occurs  the  most  deadly  contest  of  the  day.  Amid  the  clouds  of 
smoke,  even  where  the  battle  whirlpool  rages  in  its  fiery  vortex,  you  may 
see  the  plume  of  PAYNE,  who  yesterday  saw  Ringgold  die.  There,  th< 
golden  tassel,  the  long  hair  and  terrible  scimitar  of  May,  the  white  hairi 
of  M'Intosh,  the  bloody  face  of  CHADBOURNE,  rising  for  a  moment,  and 
then  sinking  to  shout  the  battle  cry  no  more. 

It  is  a  terrible  wall  of  bayonet  and  flame,  which  brightens  and  burnfe 
from  every  nook  of  the  chaparral,  but  the  Americans  are  not  to  be  turned 
back  in  their  steady  course.  Every  Regiment  is  doing  immortal  deeds 
for  the  Banner — the  Third,  the  Fourth,  the  Fifth,  the  Eighth— they  are  all 
there,  in  the  ravine,  among  the  bloody  lakes  and  up  the  deadly  bank. 


RESACA  DE  LA  PALMA.  89 

Morris  and  Allen,  Hays  and  Woods,  Buchanan  and  Barbour,  Lincoln  and 
Jourdan,  you  may  see  them  in  every  part  of  the  scene,  their  swords  rising 
as  with  one  impulse,  while  their  men  follow  them  into  the  very  jaws  of 
death.  And  suddenly  a  cloud  rolls  over  the  chaparral,  and  like  a  shroud 
enfolds  the  scene  of  murder. 

Hark  !  Shouts  from  the  bosom  of  the  cloud — hark !  The  deadly 
clang  of  bayonet  against  bayonet,  the  death  cry  and  the  wild  hurrah,  min 
gle  in  one  fiendish  chorus.  Men  are  dying  everywhere — you  see  their 
ghastly  faces  in  the  waters  of  the  lagoon,  spouting  blood  into  its  bloody 
pool,  beneath  the  silent  cannon,  as  their  skulls  crushed  into  the  sod,  you 
hear  their£  -rgling  cry  ;  amid  the  thickets  of  the  chaparral,  you  count  their 
butchered  ^rses. 

Sixteen  hundred  men,  you  will  remember,  are  doing  battle  with  nine 
thousand.  Not  on  a  level  plain,  as  yesterday,  but  in  the  pass  of  a  dark 
ravine,  amid  the  assassin-ambuscades  of  a  tangled  chaparral,  through 
lakelets  knee  deep,  yes,  breast  high,  every  wave  burdened  with  the  bodies 
of  the  dead  !  . 

In  a  whirlpool  of  carnage  like  this,  it  is  difficult  to  forget  the  roar,  the 
smoke,  the  blaze,  and  gaze  calmly  upon  the  individual  deeds  of  chivalry 
and  murder.  Yet,  dipping  our  pencil  in  the  blood  of  human  hearts,  and 
lighted  in  our  task  by  the  glare  of  battle,  we  will  crouch  here  in  the 
chaparral,  and  try  to  paint  them  all. 

Taylor  is  on  his  horse,  too  near  the  ravine,  his  face  lights  every  instant 
by  the  glare,  the  sod  every  moment,  dashing  against  the  flanks  of  the  old 
grey,  as  the  cannon  balls,  plough  the  grass  into  furrows.  The  soldiers 
beg  the  old  man,  not  to  peril  his  life,  the  officers  surround  him,  and  would 
turn  his  steed  aside,  from  the  fury  of  the  battle. 

What  is  it  the  old  man  says  ? 

"  Look  there  !"  with  a  quiet  wave  of  his  sword.  And  toward  the  right  a 
battalion  of  Americans,  on  the  borders  of  the  ravine,  not  two  hundred 
strong,  are  threatened  by  a  solid  mass  of  horse  and  foot,  who  come  thun 
dering  over  the  pass.  Beautifully  they  rush  to  battle,  their  lances  flutter 
ing  with  crimson  flags,  their  sharp  steel  glittering  in  deadly  lines.  It  is  a 
terrible  sight,  and  the  American  battalion,  quivers,  it  moves,  not  to  the  ra 
vine,  but  backward,  with  a  tremulous  impulse.  For,  a  contest  with  such 
an  overwhelming  force,  cannot  be  called  a  fight ;  it  is  a  Murder,  a  .Mas 
sacre. 

"  Look  there !"  says  the  old  man  Zachary,  and  bounding  from  the  en 
circling  officers,  he  spurs  his  grey  steed  forward,  and  in  a  moment, 
plunges  into  the  centre  of  the  battalion's  square. 

"  I  am  here,  in  the  centre  of  your  square  !" 

That  old  man,  on  his  grey  horse,  with  his  form  covered  with  a  plain 
brown  coat,  presents  a  sight,  at  once  heroic  and  sublime.  Around  him 

11 


90  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

two  hundred  bayonets — yonder,  not  thirty  yards  in  front,  the  advancing 
mass  of  Mexicans,  horse  and  foot,  at  least  one  thousand  strong. 

"  I  am  here  in  the  centre  of  the  square  !"  he  says,  and  every  foot  is 
rooted  to  the  sod. 

No  other  words  are  needed.  Silently  they  receive  the  terror  of  the 
Mexican  charge.  Bayonet  to  bayonet,  the  breast  of  man  offered  to  the 
war-horse  chest,  they  receive  them,  as  they  come  up  the  bank,  without 
one  hurrah.  But  that  fire,  did  you  see  that  sudden  flash,  light  up  the 
entire  Mexican  array  ?  That  smoke,  did  you  see  its  pall,  gather  them  in  ? 

Now,  they  shout,  now  plunging  down  the  bank,  they  charge  the  Mex 
icans  home,  and  precipitate  the  silent  butchery  of  the  bayonet,  upon  their 
splendid  array.  Again  that  shout — the  Mexicans  quiver,  every  horse  re 
coiling  on  the  horse  behind  him,  every  rank,  falling  back,  on  the  next 
line,  until  men  and  horses,  whirl  together,  like  a  thousand  v/aves,  meetino- 
in  one  centre.  Not  a  moment  to  recover  themselves,  not  a  pause  for 
thought — again  that  wild  hurrah  ! 

Old  Zachary,  left  alone  on  the  verge  of  the  bank,  laughs  quietly  to  him 
self,  as  he  sees,  beneath  the  curtain  of  clouds,  that  glorious  sight — the 
Mexican  array,  shattered  in  its  centre,  broken  on  each  wing,  give  way  and 
scatter  in  mad  disorder,  along  the  battle  ravine. 

Paint  for  me,  that  picture,  some  Painter,  whose  heart  glows  into  his 
canvass,  at  the  memory  of  heroic  deeds — a  bluff' old  warrior,  mounted  on 
his  old  grey  steed,  bending  forward,  with  extended  hand,  and  brightening 
eye,  as  gazing  into  the  shadows  of  the  ravine  below,  he  sees  two  hundred 
soldiers,  burst  like  wounded  tigers  on  a  thousand,  and  at  one  charge  level 
their  solid  ranks  into  dust. 

Beyond  the  ravine,  the  battle  went  on,  in  horrible  fury. 

A  picture  from  its  scenes  of  carnage  ! 

Do  you  see  that  wall  of  darkening  chaparral,  with  horses  and  men, 
appearing  at  every  interval,  and  lances  shining  from  the  thorns,  as  though 
they  grew  there  ? 

It  lies  beyond  the  ravine,  beyond  the  silenced  batteries.  At  the  head 
of  the  Fifth  Regiment,  a  white-haired  man,  with  his  bared  arm,  grasping 
a  sharp  sword,  spurs  the  Roan  war-horse,  and  plunges  into  the  ravine. 

He  is  the  first  of  the  band  ;  beautiful  and  bright  the  bayonets  of  his 
Regiment,  sparkle  through  the  shadows  behind  him.  As  he  plunges,  a 
murderous  fire  rushes  into  his  face — it  shrieks  away  over  the  regiment — 
but  he  is  gone  from  the  eyes  of.  his  men,  gone  through  the  chaparral,  into 
covert  not  ten  yards  square.  The  instant,  he  plunges  into  the  shadow, 
he  feels  his  horse,  the  noble  roan,  quiver,  and  with  a  howl  he  goes  down. 

Springing  from  beneath  his  dead  horse,  the  solitary  warrior,  darts  to 
his  feet,  and  finds  himself  alone  in  the  covert,  and  at  a  glance,  beholds  it 
lined  by  foes  with  bayonet  and  lances,  in  their  muscular  arms. 


RESACA  DE  LA  PALMA.  91 

It  was  worth  ten  year's  life,  to  see  how  the  solitary  warrior  met  his 
foes. 

A  tall  old  man,  with  firm,  even  severe  features,  his  wrinkled  cheeks, 
whitened  by  his  beard,  his  hair  the  color  of  snow,  he  set  his  lips  firmly 
together,  and  placing  one  foot  on  his  dead  horse,  looked  into  their  faces, 
with  a  grey  eye,  that  burned  like  a  flame.  His  coat,  had  been  torn  from 
his  form,  and  his  broad  chest,  with  the  shirt  thrown  open,  heaved  in  long 
deep  respirations. 

Even  the  Mexicans  could  not  repress  a  yell  of  admiration  !  Alone, 
in  that  covert,  with  not  an  arm  to  aid  him,  the  grey-bearded  warrior,  stood, 
with  his  foot  on  his  dead  horse,  his  bared  arm  grasping  the  sword  that 
flashed  its  light  into  twenty  tawny  faces. 

As  one  man,  they  rushed  upon  him.  It  was  a  sickening  sight.  Here, 
a  lancer,  bending  over  the  neck  of  his  horse,  his  lance  in  rest,  and  the 
point  levelled  at  the  old  man's  heart ;  by  his  side,  a  soldier,  with  the 
sharp  bayonet,  glittering  near  the  throat  of  his  victim ;  all  around,  a  cir 
cle  of  deadly  knives,  glittering  in  the  clutch  of  bony  arms. 

The  American  warrior,  merely  said,  between  his  clenched  teeth — 
"  Come  on  !"  and  with  his  solitary  sword,  received  their  charge.  For  a 
moment  he  beats  them  back,  for  a  moment  splintering  this  lance,  and  un 
fixing  that  bayonet,  he  presses  his  dead  steed  with  a  firm  foot,  and  main 
tains  his  position  against  twenty  men. 

But  then  occurs  a  scene  to  make  the  curse  quiver  from  the  lips  of  a 
saint ! 

They  rush  upon  him,  a  cloud  of  lances,  knives,  bayonets.  He  is  down, 
upon  his  dead  steed,  battling  still,  against  his  crowding  foes. 

Do  you  see,  that  grim  figure,  bending  over  him,  as  with  one  blow  he 
hurls  his  bayonet  into  the  old  man's  throat  ?  That  piece  of  cold  steel, 
enters  his  mouth,  and  appears  behind  his  ear  ! 

Still,  balding  over  his  dead  horse,  the  old  warrior  fights  for  his  life.  He 
seizes  the  very  musket,  to  which  the  bayonet  is  attached,  and  with  his 
sword,  shortened  like  a  dagger,  plunges  it  upward,  into  the  chest  of  his 
foe.  At  the  same  moment,  the  blood  gushes  from  his  own  mouth,  and 
from  the  mouth  of  the  writhing  Mexican. 

Covered  with  the  read  stream,  he  rises  once  more,  tears  the  bayonet 
from  his  mouth,  and  shaking  his  bared  arm,  before  his  bloody  face,  says 
to  them  all — 

"  Come  on  !  Cowards  as  you  are,  you  shall  see  how  an  old  soldier 
can  die  !" 

A  heroic  picture  !  The  battle  flame  beyond  the  covert,  glares  through 
this  wall  of  prickly  pear,  and  flashes  upon  his  white  hairs  and  bloody 
face,  in  bluish  light.  So  tall,  so  firm,  so  erect  upon  his  dead  horse  he 
stands,  while  round  him,  as  if  spell-bound  by  the  sight,  darkens  the  cir- 


92  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

cle  of  his  foes.  O,  had  one  drop  of  heroic  blood,  throbbed  in  their  veins, 
they  would  have  spared^  him  then  ! 

Ask  mercy  from  the  tigress  robbed  of  her  young,  or  even  from  the 
British  soldier,  drunk  with  ale  and  blood,  but  not  from  the  Mexican  Ran 
ch  ero  ! 

They  hurled  themselves  upon  him,  their  lances,  bayonets  and  knives, 
forming  a  woven  circle  of  steel  around  his  bloody  face — for  a  moment  he 
battled  against  such  formidable  odds,  and  then  upon  his  dead  horse,  he 
fell  once  more.  One  bayonet  pierced  his  thigh,  another  pinned  to  the 
sod,  his  shattered  arm.  The  blood  from  the  wound  on  his  throat,  crim 
soned  his  white  hairs,  and  trickled  in  ghastly  patches  over  his  chest.  Now 
look  your  last,  upon  that  glimpse  of  God's  beautiful  sky,  old  man,  and 
feel  the  ties  of  Home  about  your  heart  once  more,  for  there  is  Death,  in 
every  blade,  that  flashes  above  your  gory  head. 

For  a  moment,  change  the  scene.  Beyond  the  ravine,  on  the  Mray  to 
Fort  Brown,  the  narrow  road,  is  broken  by  the  waters  of  a  lakelet  or 
lagoon.  Look,  yonder  toward  the  north,  and  see  the  cannon  of  Duncan 
come,  with  Ridgeley's  glooming  near,  and  the  bayonets  of  Captain  Smith's 
infantry,  the  sword's  of  Captain  Kerr's  dragoons  glittering  on  every 
side. 

Ridgely  and  Duncan — heroes  of  Palo  Alto — come  crashing  over  the 
ravine,  along  the  road,  toward  the  lagoon.  O,  the  wild  excitement  of  the 
moment,  when  each  hero,  looks  upon  his  grim  cannon,  and  feels  that  they 
will  speak,  and  speak  thunder  and  lightning,  ere  you  may  count  ten  ! 

From  the  Fort  Brown  side  of  the  lagoon,  a  deadly  fire  hurls  its  hail  into 
the  faces  of  the  advancing  soldiers. 

Duncan,  his  form  quivering  with  the  hope  of  battle,  turns  and  looks  for 
an  officer,  who  will  support  him  with  infantry,  while  he  crashes  over  the 
lagoon,  and  tells  the  Mexicans  how  much  he  loves  them,  from  the  throats 
of  his  cannon. 

Forth  from  the  thicket,  stalks  with  measured  strides,  a  half-naked  man, 
his  shirt  thrown  open  on  his  bloody  chest,  his  white  hairs  clotted  with 
crimson  drops.  For  a  moment  he  walks  with  that  measured  pace,  but 
then  his  step  becomes  unsteady,  he  stands  erect,  his  lips  compressed,  as 
he  presses  his  hands  to  his  throat. 

Duncan  is  terrified,  appalled  at  the  sight.  It  is  evident  that  the  half- 
naked  man  before  him,  is  suffering  intolerable  torture. 

"  Colonel,"  he  shrieks,  in  a  voice  broken  by  emotion — "  Can  I  be  of 
any  service  to  you  ?" 

As  the  old  man  unclosed  his  lips,  the  blood  gushed  forth— 

"  Water  !"  he  gasped,  and  then  as  the  memory  of  that  horrible  encoun 
ter  in  the  covert,  crowded  upon  him,  he  exclaimed — "  My  Regiment  ? 
Where  is  it  ?" 

The  sun  of  Resaca  de  la  Palma  shone  on  no  braver  man,  than  this  vete- 


RESACA  DE  LA  PALMA.  93 

ran,  whom  we  now  behold,  baptized  in  blood — the  white-haired  Colonel 
M'INTOSII. 

For  a  while  we  leave  the  Battle. 

We  will  speed  through  four  miles  of  chaparral,  and  behold  the  river, 
the  city  and  the  fort.  It  is  now  two  o'clock,  and  the  sunlight  reveals  the 
devoted  fortress.  The  cannonade  from  the  city,  from  the  battery  yonder 
in  the  woods,  still  pours  its  fury  upon  the  brave  three  hundred.  So,  from 
morning  light,  it  has  yelled  its  thunder,  scattering  its  copper  balls  among 
the  heroic  band,  who  have  resolved  to  wait  for  Taylor,  and  never  give  up 
the  contest,  while  a  pulse  throbs. 

From  the  shattered  fort,  still  towers  on  high  that  staff,  undulating  with 
its  precious  ensign — the  Banner  of  the  Stars. 

Amid  the  hail  of  copper  and  iron,  the  soldiers  gather  in  the  centre  of 
the  fort,  around  that  bomb  proof,  formed  by  pieces  of  timber,  supported 
on  barrels  and  roofed  with  earth.  In  all  that  crowd  of  half-clad  men, 
begrimed  with  the  traces  of  one  hundred  and  sixty  hours  incessant  battle, 
there  is  not  one  eye  unwet  with  tears.  Captain  Hawkins,  that  brave 
man  who  replied  to  Arista's  summons  to  surrender,  with  the  words — "  I 
do  not  understand  Spanish  !"  is  on  his  knees,  gazing  upon  the  last  hour 
9f  a  dying  man. 

In  the  recess  of  the  bomb-proof,  where  the  hot  atmosphere  is  almost 
choked  into  pestilence,  behold  a  veteran  soldier  stretched  on  his  back,  his 
head  supported  by  a  knapsack,  while  the  stump  of  his  amputated  leg, 
tells  the  story  of  his  lingering  agony.  That  heroic  face,  seamed  by 
wrinkles  is  very  calm.  For  the  torture  of  pain  has  vanished  at  the  coming 
on  of  the  Death  sleep.  He  rolls  his  eyes  with  a  softened  glance,  from 
face  to  face,  and  tells  them  all  how  good  a  thing  it  is  to  die  in  a  brave 
cause.  Even  in  a  foreign  land,  under  a  hot  sun,  with  cannon  balls  fling 
ing  dust  into  your  face. 

Then,  these  men  of  iron,  who  since  last  Sabbath  morn,  have  laughed 
the  fury  of  the  enemy  to  scorn,  and  been  merry  with  his  rain  of  copper 
E.nd  iron,  turn  their  sunburnt  faces  away.  Some  of  them  look  upon  the 
ground.  Some  brush  their  eyelids  with  their  bony  hands.  One  grim  old 
war  dog,  seated  on  the  ground,  his  rough  face  with  its  blunt  features,  worn 
by  the  perils  of  sixty  years,  clenches  his  huge  fists,  and  sobs  like  a  baby. 
For  the  veteran  Brown  is  dying  and  gliding  so  softly  away,  that  not  a 
twitch  of  the  muscles  disturbs  the  mild  serenity  of  his  face,  not  a  groan 
heaves  from  his  chest,  to  tell  of  the  passing  of  his  soul. 

"  Boys,"  he  said,  slightly  raising  himself  upon  his  bent  arm,  "  Taylor 
is  coming."  , 

And  he  laid  his  head  upon  his  arm,  and  closed  his  eyes,  composing 
himself  for  a  peaceful  sleep.  Why  does  the  breeze,  warm  with  the  fever 
»f  battle,  play  with  his  grey  hairs,  and  toss  them  about  his  brow  ?  Can 


94  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

it  not  fed,  as  these  stout  hearted  soldiers  feel,  that  the  sleep  which  the 
veteran  sleeps,  is  called — DEATH  ? 

Two  hours  passed  away,  and  the  dead  man  lay  on  his  rude  death-bed, 
when  a  soldier,  gazing  to  the  north,  bent  his  head  to  one  side — listened 
for  a  moment— and  rent  the  air  with  a  shout.  Two  hundred  throats  at 
once  swelled  that  shout  into  thnnder. 

Boom — boom — boom  ! 

They  heard  it ;  from  the  north  it  sent  its  voice,  that  cannon  of  Ridgely, 
and  to  the  tired  soldier's  ear,  it  seemed  to  say,  "  WE  COME  !" 

Boom — boom — boom  !  Clang — clang — clang  !  Cannon  and  musquetry 
speaking  together,  and  saying  to  the  Spartans  of  Fort  Brown  — t;  WE 
COME  !" 

Then  a  silence  like  death,  so  terrible  from  the  thunder  which  went 
before  it,  a  silence  that  lay  upon  the  chaparral  like  a  spell. 

Hurrah!  They  are  charging  upon  them  now.  Silence!  Now  cold 
steel  to  cold  steel,  horse  to  horse,  and  man  to  man.  Silence  and  suspense, 
the  silence  so  dread,  the  suspense  so  horrible.  Long  the  soldiers  listened, 
quivering  they  gave  to  their  ears  every  sound,  when  suddenly,  from  the 
north, there  came  a  noise  like  the  trampling  of  nine  thousand  men, — not  so 
loud  as  cannon,  nor  so  shrill  as  musquetry — but  a  subdued,  half-hushed, 
brooding  murmur.  It  grew,  it  spread  far  and  wide  over  the  chaparral, 
and  it  began  to  say,  "  ZACHARY  TAYLOR  COMES  !" 

To  the  Battlefield  once  more. 

The  tent  of  Arista  rising  proudly  in  the  centre  of  this  green  space,  with 
the  chaparral  darkening  around.  Its  gaudy  curtains  wave  gaily  in  the 
light,  while  on  every  side  the  banquet  fires  are  blazing.  The  choice  wines 
stand  buried  in  pails  of  ice,  the  goblets  gleam  along  the  festival  table,  set 
in  the  deep  shade  behind  the  tent.  But  where  are  the  menials  charged 
with  the  preparation  of  the  feast  ? 

Where  are  the  glittering  throng  of  cavaliers,  who  this  morning  went  forth 
to  battle  ?  Where  the  gloomy  Ampudia,  that  terrible  boiler  of  dead  men's 
heads,  or  Arista,  the  general-in-chief,  hardened  by  the  perils  of  battle  and 
tears  of  exile — where  is  he  ? 

This  magnificent  tent,  adorned  with  all  the  marks  of  luxury,  standing 
in  the  midst  of  the  deserted  chaparral,  is  your  only  answer. 

Hark  !  From  yonder  thicket  the  clamor  of  battle,  and  a  band  of  Ameri 
cans  emerge  from  the  prickly  pear,  and  advance  toward  the  silent  tent. 
While  the  roar  of  the  fight  yells  on  every  side,  you  may  note  the  appear 
ance  of  the  leader  of  the  band  ;  a  young  man,  whose  well-proportioned 
form,  is  clad  in  the  blue  and  silver  of  the  Fourth  Infantry.  His  florid 
face  glows  with  enthusiasm,  his  eye  sparkles  with  battle  delight. 

As  he  advances  from  the  north,  along  this  road,  southward  from  the 
tent,  a  solitary  Lancer  rides  slowly  along,  examining  with  cool  scrutiny, 


RESACA  DE   LA  PALMA.  95 

the  numbers  and  arms  of  the  Americans.  They  fire— he  gallops  away- 
unharmed.  Again  returns,  and  again  rides  laughingly  away  from  their 
fire.  A  third  time  he  comes  back,  and  whirling  along  like  an  avalanche 
of  horses,  men  and  spears,  comes  the  glittering  lancer  array. 

As  they  come,  the  Americans  pour  their  fire  into  their  faces,  and  two 
dying  men  bite  the  dust.  Then  every  form  seeks  the  covert,  and  the 
lancers  come  dashing  on.  Only  one  man — it  is  their  leader — stands  un 
sheltered  ;  his  manly  chest  a  mark  for  each  deadly  lance.  They  come 
charging  on,  a  cloud  of  dust  marks  their  career,  their  lances  glittering 
above  it,  a  long  and  dazzling  line.  With  a  shout  they  charge :  one  man, 
you  see  his  uncovered  brow  glow  in  the  sunlight,  confronts  their  charge, 
and  takes  its  battle  bolt  upon  his  breast.  Once  you  see  his  arm  raised, 
once  he  shouts,  and  then,  falling  on  his  face,  is  pinned  by  twenty  lances 
to  the  sod. 

The  lancers  whirl  like  a  cloud  before  the  wind,  away,  and  you  see  only 
— the  deserted  tent,  the  dead  man,  and  the  darkening  chaparral. 

So,  on  the  field  of  Resaca  de  la  Palma  died  the   chivalric  COCHRAXE 

— while  far  away,  by  the  waters  of  the  Susquehanna,  where  its  islands 
are  most  beautiful,  its  mountains  most  sublime,  his  young  Wife  watched 
for  his  return — with  his  face  to  the  dust  and  his  back  to  the  sky,  he  yielded 
up  his  breath,  and  in  his  blood  they  found  him,  the  young  hero  of  the 
LAND  OF  PENX. 

Look  through  yonder  thicket,  and  see  that  face,  distorted  with  alt  the 
agonies  of  despair  ! 

A  warrior  reins  his  horse  alone  in  the  shadows  of  the  chaparral,  near 
Arista's  tent.  The  white  horse,  the  gorgeous  battle  array,  the  dark  olive 
cheek  and  the  red  mustache,  all  tell  you  his  rank  and  his  name.  It  is 
Arista,  listening  to  the  carnage  shouts  of  Resaca  de  la  Palma.  Leaning 
his  clasped  hands  on  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  he  bites  his  nether-lip 
until  the  blood  starts,  and  then  dashes  the  cold  dews  from  his  brow. 

It  is  not  death  he  fears, — no,  the  sharpest  steel  or  deadliest  ball  were 
welcome  now  as  bridal  kiss  to  him — but  it  is  the  disgrace,  the  dishonor, 
the  loss  of  glory.  The  utter  wreck  and  ruin  of  six  thousand  men,  all 
veterans  and  heroes,  by  sixteen  hundred  Americans,  led  on  by  a  rough  old 
warrior,  in  a  brown  coat ! 

Around 'that  solitary  Chieftain  roars  the  contest,  near  and  nearer, 
Duncan's  cannon  shouting  to  Ridgely's,  and  May's  sabre  clattering  a  wild 
hurrah  to  Walker's  sword.  Bigger  and  blacker,  the  clouds  came  gloom 
ing  over  the  waste,  every  nook  and  path  of  the  chaparral  became  the  scene 
of  a  bloody  contest,  and  riding  across  the  ravine,  Zachary  Taylor  beheld 
his  army  in  full  chase  after  the  retreating  Mexicans,  the  dust  rising  be. 
neath  their  feet,  and  the  battle  cloud  rolling  above  their  heads. 

It  was  in  this  moment  of  his  peril,  that  Arista  hesitated,  whether  to  ad- 


96  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

Vance  or  fly.  It  was  his  first  impulse,  to  fling  himself,  with  his  white 
horse,  upon  the  bayonets  of  the  foe ;  but  a  hope,  a  wild,  miserable  hope 
burned  in  his  eyes  once  more,  and  he  suffered  the  gallant  steed  to  take  his 
own  path,  into  the  mazes  of  the  chaparral. 

But  think  not  that  the  Mexicans  fled  without  fighting.  No  !  It  is  only 
the  part  of  a  hired  British  libeller,  to  deny  courage  to  a  chivalric  foe :  let 
no  American  be  guilty  of  the  baseness  of  such  denial.  The  officers  of  the 
General's  staff  were  gone- — some  of  them  prisoners,  some  corses,  some 
fugitives — Ampudia,  look  for  him  yonder,  his  head  thrown  forward,  his 
eyes  rolling  with  fear,  as  he  digs  h^is  spurs  into  the  flanks  of  his  flying  steed. 
Yet  still,  there  were  Mexican  men,  common  soldiers,  who  faced  the  foe, 
in  this  sad  hour,  and  wrote  their  courage  on  the  sod,  with  the  last  convul 
sive  movement  of  their  stiffening  hands. 

There  was  an  old  man,  who  came  rushing  from  the  chaparral  into  an 
open  space,  some  thirty  yards  square,  hedged  in  on'  every  side  by  that 
wall  of  prickly  pear. 

His  green  uniform  hanging  about  his  broad  chest  in  ribbands,  his  dark 
beard  and  mustache  silvered  with  the  toil  of  sixty  years,  he  tottered  for 
ward,  while  from  the  thicket  crashed  some  twenty  dragoons,  in  hot  pur 
suit,  every  arm  wielding  its  flashing  scimiter. 

Why  pursue  this  old  man,  who,  fainting  from  many  wounds,  still  totters 
on,  tracking  his  course  with  his  blood  ? 

Around  his  right  arm  he  bears  the  last  memorial  of  the  veteran  band, 
the  Battalion  of  Tampico.  It  is  their  banner,  embroidered  by  the  hands 
of  beautiful  women,  and  sanctified  by  the  prayers  of  white-robed  nuns. 
He  received  it  from  the  hands  of  a  dying  comrade,  received  it,  as  his  warm 
blood  spouted  over  his  face,  and  swore,  never,  while  one  throb  of  life  re 
mained,  to  yield  it  into  American  hands. 

Where  is  the  Tampico  battalion  now,  that  went  forth  so  steadily  to  the 
fight,  not  two  hours  ago  ?  Where  are  its  bronzed  faces,  its  iron  forms  ? 
Some  are  in  the  ravine,  their  cold  faces  washed  by  the  bloody  waters  of 
the  lagoon,  some  in  the  chaparral,  splintered  into  fragments,  some  have 
flung  away  their  arms,  and  rushed  bare-chested  upon  the  foe,  in  the  frenzy 
of  despair. 

The  Battalion  is  dead.  This  old  war-dog,  tottering  on,  with  its  banner 
wound  about  his  arm,  alone  remains  of  all  its  proud  array. 

Planting  his  right  foot  firmly  in  the  centre  of  the  glade — all  hope  of 
flight  is  vain — he  clutches  his  short  sword  with  a  grasp  like  death,  and 
glares,  like  a  maddened  bull,  in  the  faces  of  his  pursuers. 

These  dragoons,  brave  fellows,  who  have  done  noble  work  in  to-day's 
fight,  and  who  always  doff'  their  helmets  when  they  see  courage,  even  in 
a  foe,  rein  in  their  steeds  with  one  impulse,  at  the  sight. 

One  of  their  number  dismounts,  flings  the  rein  on  the  horse's  neck,  and 
sword  in  hand  advances.  You  see  his  short  yet  robust  form,  manifesting 


RESACA  DE  LA  PALMA.  97 

in  the  bared  sinews  of  the  right  arm,  an  almost  superhuman  strength.  His 
blunt  face,  with  heavy  features,  short,  stiff  hair,  and  keen  grey  eyes, 
announces  the  tenacious  courage  of  a  bull-dog. 

"  Look  yer,  stranger,"  he  exclaims—"  You  're  faint  with  blood,  and  had 
better  yield — the  old  man's  won  the  day,  and  there  haint  no  further  use 
for  that  flag—" 

His  comrades,  with  their  steeds  recoiling  on  their  haunches,  and  their 
battle-worn  faces  bent  forward,  await  the  result  of  this  scene,  with  deep 
suspense. 

But,  look  !  The  stout  old  veteran  is  dying  ;  his  eyes  are  half-closed  ; 
he  totters  to  and  fro,  still  with  the  Tampico  banner  wound  about  his  arm. 

The  American  dragoon,  touched  with  pity,  springs  forward  to  catch 
him  as  he  falls,  and  at  the  same  moment,  feels  the  short  sword  of  the  old 
man  driven  to  theJiilt  in  his  breast. 

Then,  with  a  wild  yell,  that  veteran  crashes  into  the  thicket  and  is  gone. 
The  dying  dragoon  breathes  in  gasps  ;  he  clutches  the  earth  by  handfuls, 
and  rolling  slowly  on  his  face  stiffens  into  clay. 

You  should  have  seen  the  expression  of  horror  which  sank  like  a  sha 
dow,  upon  every  face.  For  a  moment  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Only  an 
instant  ago,  that  tottering  old  man,  with  his  eye  swimming  as  if  by  disso 
lution,  and  that  muscular  dragoon,  advancing  with  a  look  of  rude  pity,  to 
his  aid.  Now ! 

There  was  a  dead  man  on  the  sod.  The  place  of  the  veteran  was 
vacant :  you  hear  him  yonder,  crashing  through  the  thicket. 

It  is  in  vain  to  attempt  the  mazes  of  that  barrier  of  thorns  on  horseback. 
A  moment's  hurried  consultation  is  held ;  a  young  dragoon  springs  from 
his  steed,  and  plunges  into  the  chaparral.  His  comrades  behold  his  tall 
form,  his  swarthy  face,  with  prominent  features,  shadowed  by  short  curl 
ing  black  hair,  behold  him  for  a  moment  only,  and  he  is  gone. 

On,  crashing  through  that  wilderness  of  thorns,  cutting  his  way  with 
his  sword,  or  crawling  on  hands  and  knees,  guided  by  the  echo  of  the 
old  soldier's  tread,  he  hurries,  his  heart  palpitating  with  the  fever  of  re 
venge.  Hark  !  He  nears  his  foe — these  footsteps  sound  heavy  and  sul 
len — the  old  man  is  fainting  from  loss  of  blood — soon  he  will  fall,  and  from 
his  dying  clutch  the  victor  will  rend  the  Banner  of  the  iron  band. 

At  last  they  stand  face  to  face.  In  a  nook  of  the  chaparral,  where  the 
torrents,  now  dried  up  and  vanished  from  the  burnt  soil,  have  formed -a 
deep  gully,  the  young  Dragoon  beholds  the  old  soldier,  leaning  against  the 
bank  of  clay,  the  banner  wound  firmly  around  his  right  arm,  with  the 
hand  still  clutching  the  fatal  short  sword. 

It  is  a  sad  and  pitiable  sight.  So  weak  with  his  wounds,  so  near  his 
death  hour,  his  head  sinking  on  one  shoulder,  his  bent  knees,  bending 
beneath  his  massive  frame,  he  glares  into  the  face  of  the  Dragoon,  with 
those  glassy  eyes  fired  with  deadly  hatred. 

12 


gg  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

The  Banner  was  given  to  him  by  dying  hands,  and  he  will  keep  it  in 
his  death  hour ! 

"  Yield  !"  shouted  the  Dragoon,  advancing  with  a  firm  tread,  his  sword 
grasped  by  a  vigorous  arm,  while  his  well-knit  figure  towered  erect,  and 
the  battle  flush  crimsoned  his  face  from  the  chin  to  the  curling  dark  hair. 

The  old  man  with  a  great  effort  raises  himself,  and  with  his  sword 
before  his  chest,  his  back  against  the  bank,  stands  on  his  defence. 

For  a  moment  they  regard  one  another  silently,  those  glassy  eyes,  fading 
into  eternal  darkness,  glaring  upon  the  fiery  eyes  of  youth  and  vigor.  The 
Dragoon  drops  his  sword — 

"  You  murdered  my  comrade — aye,  murdered  him,  as  he  sprang  for'rad 
to  help  you,  but  I  cannot  kill  you.  You'll  die  in  a  few  minutes,  and  the 
Banner  will  be  mine  !" 

He  silently  contemplates  his  expiring  foe.  ^ 

But  the  old  soldier — what  means  that  long  deep  heaving  of  the  blojody 
chest  ?  That  convulsive  movement  of  the  arms  ?  That  swelling  of  the 
veins  in  the  throat  I  He  is  preparing  all  the  strength  within  him,  for  a 
desperate  effort,  yes,  with  a  bound  like  a  wounded  panther,  he  darts  upon 
the  young  Dragoon,  and  pinions  his  throat  with  those  iron  fingers,  with 
the  death-grip  of  a  desperate  man  ! 

To  force  the  American  back  on  his  knees,  to  crush  the  sinews  of  his 
throat,  until  his  eyes  started  from  their  sockets,  to  press  his  own  knees 
on  his  chest, — it  was  done  like  a  flash.  The  American's  stiffening  fin 
gers  dropped  his  sword — gurgling  as  in  this  death, agony,  a  thick  and 
choking  groan,  he  sank  back  on  the  sod.  His  eyes  started  from  their 
sockets.  His  face  was  discolored  by  streaks  of  blue  and  red  ;  livid  as 
the  visage  of  a  poisoned  man. 

A  moment  longer,  and  that  death  grip  will  finish  the  career  of  the  gal 
lant  Dragoon.  Glaring  with  his  dilating  eye,  into  the  victim's  face,  he 
growls  a  hoarse  oath,  tightens  his  clutch,  and — 

Did  you  see  that  form,  leap  into  air,  the  face  ghastly,  the  eyes  rolling 
in  death,  the  chest  heaving  with  a  fiendish  howl  ?  It  is  a  horrible  spec 
tacle  !  He  stands  for  a  moment,  rends  the  flag  from  his  arm,  gazes  mad 
ly — almost  fondly — upon  it,  as  it  quivers  in  his  grasp,  and  falls  upon  it, 
with  his  face,  crushing  its  folds  into  the  grass. 

He  rests  upon  the  flag ;  his  face  you  cannot  see,  and  yet  on  either  side 
of  his  head,  you  see  a  widening  pool  of  blood,  that  clots  the  fine  embroi 
dering  of  the  Banner,  and  paints  with  crimson  the  words — BATALLON 
DE  TAMPICO. 

The  American  Dragoon  arose,  with  the  livid  mark  upon  his  face,  the 
blood  drops  starting  from  his  blood-shot  eyes.and  gazed  with  a  look,  wild 
with  terror  upod  the  sight  before  him — The  dead  Veteran,  and  his  bloody 
Banner. 


RESACA  DE  LA  PALMA.  99 

Zachary  Taylor,  spurring  forward  his  favorite  grey,  beheld  the  fury  of 
the  battle  roll  along  the  narrow  road — the  wall  of  the  chaparral  on  either 
side — swelling  its  waves  of  blood  toward  the  Rio  Grande. 
"  I  will  be  at  Fort  Brown  to  night,  if  I  live  !" 
And  he  was  going  there  ! 
Would  you  behold  his  path  ? 

Down  the  narrow  road,  hedged  in  by  prickly  pear,  paved  with  corses, 
roaring  with  thunder,  blazing  with  the  lightning  of  carmon.  Gaze  there, 
and  see  the  Mexicans  go  down  at  every  shot,  by  ranks,  by  platoons,  by 
columns. 

It  is  no  battle,  but  a  hunt,  a  Massacre !  You  have  read  of  the  Indians 
firing  a  prairie,  in  a  circle,  and  waiting  patiently  until  the  flame,  roaring 
toward  the  centre,  hems  the  frightened  deer,  panthers  and  buffaloes  into 
a  furnace  of  burning  grass  f  Old  Zachary  has  fired  his  prairie  ;  the  circle 
grows  narrower  every  moment ;  that  circle  formed  by  Ridgely's  cannon, 
by  Duncan's  battery,  linked  with  the  lines  of  Montgomery,  grows  nar-*' 
rower  every  instant,  and  crushes  and  hurls  and  burns  the  Mexicans  to 
ward  the  centre  of  death,  the  Rio  Grande. 

•And  now,  Walker  and  May  at  the  head  of  their  deaths-men,  wave  their 
swords  and  seek  the  game,  as  it  issues  from  the  flames.  The  heart  grows 
sick  of  the  blood.  The  chaparral  seems  a  great  heart  of  carnage,  palpi 
tating  a  death  at  every  throb. 

Volumes  would  not  tell  the  horrors  of  that  flight.  Happy  the  poor 
wretch  who  could  creep  into  the  chaparral,  and  bleed  to  death  in  dark 
ness  !  Woe  to  the  wretch  who  pursued  the  road  to  Fort  Brown  !  The 
sword  of  May  severed  his  throat,  or  the  hail  of  Ridgely  crushed  him 
down,  on  the  cannon  of  Duncan,  thundered  over  his  mangled  corse. 

Still  in  the  midst  of  the  scene,  old  Zachary  spurred  his  grey  steed, 
while  the  bullets  riddled  his  brown  coat,  he  pointed  toward  the  Fort. 

The  setting  sun,  struggling  with  the  black  and  red  clouds  that  choked 
his  beams,  spread  over  the  chaparral,  a  pale  and  livid  light. 

Boom,  boom,  boom  !  At  Fort  Brown,  that  sound  was  heard,  and 
springing  to  the  parapet,  beside  the  flag  staff,  the  soldiers  beheld  a  strange, 
a  meaning  sight. 

From  the  chaparral —while  that  terrible  murmur  grew  louder  in  its 
depths — burst  a  solitary  horseman,  dressed  in  the  gorgeous  costume  of  a 
Mexican  officer,  his  brow  bared,  and  his  extended  hand  waving  a  sword 
in  mad  circles  above  his  head.  On,  on,  to  the  river,  he  rushed,  his  horse 
bleeding  all  the  while  ;  on,  and  on,  shouting  in  Spanish—"  It  is  lost !  The 
Day  to  Mexico  is  lost !" 

Hark  !  That  cheer— how  it  went  up  from  Fort  Brown,  and  startled 
Matamoras  to  its  inmost  home  ! 

For  the  flying  soldier  was  AMPUDIA,  the  murderer  of  Sentmanat ;  yes, 
into  the  river  he  plunged  his  horse,  looking  back  over  his  shoulder  in  mad 


!00  THE  BATTLES   OF   TAYLOR. 

terror,  as  the  people  on  the  roofs  and  shore,  heard  his  shout — Lost !  All 
-is  lost  ! 

In  Fort  Brown,  every  soldier  held  his  breath.  For  look  !  From  the 
^  northern  chaparral,  where  the  cloud  darkens  up  against  the  sun,  a  mass 
of  panic-stricken  fugitives  rush  by  hundreds  and  by  thousands,  filling  the 
air  with  the  cry  of  their  terror. 

They  come,  scattering  their  arms  by  the  way.  They  come,  trampling 
over  those  who  fall  fainting  in  their  path.  They  come,  the  cavalry — 
those  gay  lancers— riding  down,  without  remorse,  their  own  infantry  ; 
they  come,  the  chivalry  of  Mexico,  transformed  into  a  Mob,  drunk  with 
terror  and  blood. 

The  whirlpool  rushes  to  the  river,  as  to  the  centre  of  its  fury.  By 
two  roads,  it  pours  its  frightened  fugitives  along ;  one  above  and  one 
below  the  fort,  one  leading  to  the  upper  and  one  to  the  lower  ferry. 
These  roads  are  black  and  bloody,  with  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Pouring  in  one  steady  stream,  flinging  their  clothes  upon  the  road,  they 
dash  from  the  chaparral  toward  the  river,  man  and  horse,  maddened  by 
the  same  fear.  The  wounded  too,  placed  in  sacks,  borne  by  mules,  rudely 
tossed  to  and  fro,  wring  the  air  with  incessant  cries. 

Now  cheer  again,  brave  defenders  of  Fort  Brown  !  Cheer  once  more, 
and  turn  the  blaze  of  the  eighteen  pounder  toward  the  upper  ferry.  That 
blaze  carries  twenty  deaths  with  it ;  in  the  ranks  of  the  fugitives,  twenty 
men,  sink  howling  on  the  road. 

By  the  shore  behold  this  scene.  A  crowd  of  panic-stricken  soldiers, 
have  seized  the  raft ;  with  mad  cries  and  shouts,  they  push  it  from  the 
shore,  when  like  a  whirlwind,  a  body  of  their  own  lancers  rush  upon 
them,  urging  their  horses  through  the  waves,  and  planting  their  hoofs  upon 
the  faces  of  their  dismounted  countrymen.  For  a  moment,  burdened  with 
human  agony,  a  mass  of  faces  and  bodies,  writhing  beneath  the  trampling 
horses,  that  raft  quivers,  rolls  over  the  waves,  agitated  by  its  motion,  and 
then,  like  a  rock  from  a  heighth,  goes  crashing  down. 

As  it  sinks,  you  see  that -solitary  Priest,  standing  amid  the  crowd,  in  the 
centre  of  the  raft,  his  uplifted  hand,  holding  into  light,  the  Cross  of  God. 
For  a  moment,  it  glitters,  and  then  the  raft  is  gone,  a  horrible  yell  rushes 
into  heaven,  and  where  a  moment  ago,  was  a  mass  of  human  faces,  lan 
cers'  flags  and  war-horse  forms,  now  is  only  the  boiling  river,  heaving  with 
the  dying  and  the  dead. 

It  was  horrible  to  see  them  die,  horrible  to  witness  them  clutching  at 
each  other's  throats,  ere  they  sank  below,  horrible  to  behold  the  Women, 
on  the  opposite  bank,  who  tried  to  recognize  a  brother,  or  husband  in  that 
whirlpool*  of  waves  and  blood. 

Four  days  afterward,  those  bodies,  festering  in  corruption,  floated  black 
ened  and  hideous,  upon  the  waters  of  the  Rio  Grande.  Upon  the  root  of 
a  tiee,  which  protruded  from  the  river  bank,  left  bare  by  the  receding 


RESACA   DE    LA    PALMA.  101 

wave,  hung  the  corse  of  the  Priest,  his  right  hand  clutching  that  hallowed 
Cross. 

While  the  scenes  of  death,  took  place  on  the  river,  the  eighteen  pounder 
in  the  Fort,  was  hushed,  and  the  heroic  three  hundred,  crowding  to  the 
parapet,  gazed  in  silence,  upon  that  strange,  wild  panorama,  which  was  • 
stretched  before  their  eyes.  Brown  lay  cold  in  death,  but  Hawkins,  lean 
ing  on  his  sword,  his  face  manifesting  strong  emotion,  looked  to  the  north, 
and  looked  to  see  old  Taylor  come. 

Soon,  from  the  chaparral,  shone  the  American  bayonets,  flinging  back 
from  their  dazzling  points  the  light  of  the  setting  sun,  and  then,  from  the 
darkness  of  the  thicket,  a  volume  of  blaze,  a  cloud  of  white  smoke,  rush 
ing  forth  together,  told  that  Ridgely  and  Duncan  were  near. 

Along  the  roads  those  bayonets  extended,  pressing  the  fugitives  to 
death,  while  through  their  intervals  the  cannons  moved  on,  shouting  their 
thunder  ory,  as  from  the  wood  to  the  river,  they  mowed  the  Mexicans 

into  heaps  of  mangled  flesh. 

• 

It  was  then,  amid  this  hurrying  scene  of  slaughter,  when  the  river  bur 
dened  with  corses,  the  town  black  on  its  roofs  with  affrighted  thousands, 
the  separate  roads  strewed  with  dying  and  dead,  the  Fort  crowded  on  its 
ramparts  with  the  Spartan  band,  glowed  in  all  their  strong  contrasts  with 
the  beams  of  the  setting  sun,  it  was  then,  as  the  American  banner,  which 
had  endured  four  thousand  shots  and  still  waved  on,  flung  its  belts  of 
scarlet  and  snow  against  the  evening  sky,  that  riding  amid  the  battle 
clouds  toward  the  Fort,  there  came  an  old  man,  mounted  on  a  grey  steed, 
his  brown  coat  thrown  back  from  his  chest,  and  his  bronzed  face  beaming 
with  a  smile. 

You  should  have  heard  the  shout  that  went  up  from  the  Fort,  as  they 
saw  old  Taylor  come  ! 

Nine  days  ago,  with  two  thousand  men,  he  left  the  Fort — the  country 
all  around  swarming  with  Mexicans  by  thousands — marched  to  the  relief 
of  Point  Isabel  ;  and  now,  he  comes  back,  having  hewn  his  way  through 
the  breasts  and  steel  of  two  bloody  battles  ;  he  comes  back,  his  brows 
wreathed  in  laurels,  and  behold  the  sungleam  of  victory  light  with  one 
glow,  the  river,  the  fortress  and  the  corse  of  the  veteran  Brown. 

Beside  that  corse,  beneath  the  evening  sky,  he  stood,  while  around, 
their  deep  silence  unbroken  by  a  word,  grouped  the  heroes  of  the  Fort. 
The  body  of  the  veteran  bleeding  from  the  shattered  leg,  even  in  death, 
his  upturned  face  moulded  in  a  look  of  ineffable  calmness,  so  that  his 
white  lips  seemed  to  say,  You  have  come  at  last !  The  form  of  the  war 
rior,  his  body  bent  forward,  his  clasped  hands  resting  on  his  sheathed 
sword,  as  with  downcast  eyes,  he  surveyed  that  facf,  now  cold  in  death 
forever.  Such  was  the  picture  ;  but  what  language  can  portray  the  emo 
tions  which  quivered  in  the  warrior's  breast  at  this  stiU  hour,  as  gazing 


102  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

on  the  soldier's  mangled  body,  the  full  consciousness  of  the  glory  he  had 
won,  rushed  like  a  torrent  on  his  soul  ? 

The  scenes  of  his  life  passed  like  a  vision  before  him. — The  Child  of 
a  Revolutionary  lineage — his  father  fought  beside  Washington  in  the 
Christmas  Festival  at  Trenton — he  stood  once  more,  a  mere  boy  of 
Eighteen,  in  the  presence  of  Jefferson,  and  received  from  his  hands,  his 
Lieutenant's  commission. 

The  scenes  of  deadly  and  bloody  Indian  wars — on  the  prairies  of  the 
north  and  among  the  everglades  of  Florida — his  long  and  laborious  life, 
long  without  fame,  and  laborious  without  glory,  suddenly  ripening  into 
fame  and  glory,  on  these  fields  of  Palo  Alto  and  Resaca  de  la  Palma,  be 
fore  whose  light  the  brightest  names  of  age  would  bow  their  laurelled 
heads — all  glided  before  him,  like  the  historic  panorama  of  some  long  past 
age.  Standing  beside  the  corse  of  Brown,  with  the  evidences  of  his 
success  around  him,  waving  in  the  Banner  above  his  head,  and  glaring 
upon  him  from  the  cold  face  of  the  dead  soldier,  he  still  might  scarce  be 
lieve  himself,  plain  Zachary  Taylor,  at  once  the  Victor  and  the  Hero. 

Chosen  by  Almighty  God,  in  the  strong  maturity  of  his  grey  hairs,  as 
the  Instrument  of  great  events,  called  forth  in  his  vigorous  old  age,  to  be 
come  the  hero  of  glorious  battles,  can  we  doubt  that  in  this  moment  of 
silent  thought,  Zachary  Taylor  recognized  with  awe,  that  awful  hand 
which  beckoned  him  onward,  through  the  cloud  of  the  Future,  and  felt 
himself  the  Child  of  Destiny,  the  Champion  of  a  People,  the  Man  of  an 
Age? 

Felt  that  in  his  hand  was  placed  for  deeds  of  high  responsibility,  the 
SWORD  OF  WASHINGTON,  and  saw  it  flash  over  the  battle-fields  of  a  re 
deemed  Continent ! 

0,  Tricksters  of  Council  and  Cabinet,  who,  while  you  fill  the  nation 
with  your  petty  broils,  and  swindle  adroitly  into  your  own  hands,  the 
Money  of  a  People,  still  with  pursed  lips  and  expanded  eyelids,  talk  with 
righteous  horror  of '  a  Military  Chieftain?  making  that  phrase  portentous 
as  the  bug-a-boo  of  an  Idiot's  dream,  come  here  to  the  Rio  Grande,  in  this 
silent  evening  hour,  and  learn  some  wisdom  from  this  heroic  old  man  ! 

Does  God  rule  the  world  ?  Does  he  sleep  ?  Do  men  arise  and  fall, 
do  wars  go  on,  and  lands  grow  rich  in  peace,  without  His  awful  and  direct 
interposition  ?  Deny  this,  and  you  stand  before  that  God,  guilty  of  a  cold 
blooded,  practical  atheism,  compared  to  which,  the  Satanic  sneer  of  Vol 
taire  is  Love  and  Charity.  Admit  it,  and  you  must  answer  another 
question — 

Why  was  Zachary  Taylor  permitted  to  remain  in  comparative  obscu 
rity,  for  the  space  of  thirty-eight  years,  and  then  elevated  suddenly  into 
the  Hero  of  Palo.  Mto,  Resaca  de  la  Palma,  Monterey  and  Buena  Vista  ? 

Did  Almighty  God  raise  this  man  for  nothing  ? 

Did  he  raise  this  rnan  merely  for  a  uniformed  show,  a  glittering  pageant. 


RESACA  DE   LA   PALMA.  103 

a  nine  days  wonder,  and  an  hour's  hurrah  ?  Gaze  upon  the  plain  old 
man's  brown  coat,  and  unpretending  manner,  and  have  your  answer  ! 

Or,  did  Almighty  God,  in  the  time  of  peril,  when  those  gamblers  in 
fraud,  those  grey-beards  in  falsehood,  termed  politicians,  have  usurped 
the  control  of  the  Nation,  from  the  Ward  House  to  the  Capitol,  and  trans 
formed  the  Capitol  itself  into  one  immense  gambling  saloon,  where  the 
honor  of  the  country  and  the  safety  of  the  people  are  played  away  every 
winter,  by  pot-house  demagogues — in  this  time  of  peril,  when  the  Power 
of  this  great  Union  is  centralized,  not  in  a  Royal  Pageant,  but  in  the  tool 
of  a  Convention,  or  the  parasite  of  a  Party — when  the  statesmanship  of  the 
country  has  become  so  thoroughly  rotten,  that  any  act  of  perjury,  any 
abortion  of  infamy,  is  deemed  a  virtue,  if  mantled  by  the  word — "polities'1 
— did  the  same  God,  who  guided  Washington  on  to  Peace,  through  seven 
years  of  blood,  raise  this  man,  Zachary  Taylor,  in  his  old  age,  to  win 
glorious  battles  in  a  far-distant  clime,  as  much  by  his  moral  power  as  by 
his  bayonets,  so  that  covered  with  the  confidence  of  every  honest  man  in 
the  land,  he  might  come  to  the  Capitol,  and  with  one  sturdy  blow,  split 
the  forehead  of  the  Demon,  Faction,  and  crush  its  worshippers  into  the 
kennel  which  gave  them  birth  ?* 

— Zachary  Taylor  is  a  Military  Chieftain  !  Whose  voice  spoke  there  ? 
Some  superannuated  trickster  of  politics,  who  has  grown  grey  in  the  shack- 
els  of  party,  and  without  one  noble  deed  to  relieve  the  dotage  of  a 
miserably  spent  life,  snarls  forth  his  envy,  when  a  Man  in  reality,  great, 
crosses  his  little  shadow. 

A  Military  Chieftain  ?  In  what  does  he  differ  from  Arista,  Ampudia, 
and  all  the  mere  Military  Chieftains  of  Mexico  ?  Why  did  he,  with  only 
sixteen  hundred,  conquer  nine  thousand  brave  men,  at  Palo  Alto  and  Re- 
saca  de  la  Palma,  headed  by  Chieftains  like  these  ?  In  a  word,  we  have 
the  difference — in  a  word,  the  reason  of  his  conquest — his  chieftainship  is 


*  Last  winter,  on  the  floor  of  the  Senate,  a  grave  Senator  declared  in  his  place, 
that  did  the  People  know  the  rotteness  of  the  government  at  Washington,  the  pesti 
lence  of  the  corruption,  which  infected  its  every  department — White  House,  Senate 
and  Representative  Hall — they  would  assemble,  in  mass,  and  precipitate  the  '  Presi 
dent,  Senate,  Congressmen,  heads  of  departments,"  ail  together,  into  the  Potomac.' 

Xo  one  in  the  Senate  dare  give  the  Senator  the  lie. 

The  truly  great  men  of  the  Nation,  the  Andrew  Jackson's,  and  Henry  Clay's  have 
never  been,  in  the  technical  meaning  of  the  phrase,  party  men.  Their  proudest 
triumphs  have  been  above  all  party.  Jackson,  a  Democrat,  when  he  would  save  the 
Union,  from  Southern  nullification,  called  to  his  and  the  Federal  principle.  Henry 
Clay,  a.  high  protective  tariff  advocate,  when  he  would  restore  peace  to  a  convulsed 
Nation,  also  held  his  country,  dearer  than  his  party,  for  he  urged  and  carried  a  Com 
promise.  Both  these  men,  have  been  repeatedly  betrayed  by  Faction.  When  Jack 
son  commenced  his  war  in  the  Infamy  of  Chartered  Despotism,  his  party  friends  fell 
away  by  thousands.  The  People  sustained  him.  When  Clay,  by  the  force  of  his 
Genius,  had  uoheld  nil  brilliant  career  as  a  statesman  for  forty  years,  the  party  which 


104  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

centred,  not  in  balls  or  bayonets,  but  in  the  hearts  of  his  soldiers.  The 
Mexican,  even  as  he  plunged  into  the  battle's  front,  had  no  confidence  in 
his  leaders.  While  he  poured  forth  his  blood,  they  were  flying  from  the 
field.  What  soldier  could  fight,  with  a  consciousness  like  this,  paralyz 
ing  his  arm  ?  But  the  Americans  fought  directly  under  the  eye  of 
Zachary — whatever  might  be  their  fate,  he  was  there  to  share  it — and 
therefore,  sixteen  hundred  men  hurled  nine  thousand  before  them,  while 
in  their  centre,  rode  that  plain  man,  in  a  brown  coat,  with  his  spy-glass 
and  old  grey  horse  ;  his  bronzed  face  lighted  by  his  speaking  battle  eye, 
shining  its  Jire  into  every  heart. 

Never  since  the  days  of  Washington,  has  a  Commander  so  thoroughly 
possessed  the  hearts  of  his  men. 

Let  us  close  this  Battle  Picture  of  Resaca  de  la  Palma,  with  four 
sketches,  delineating  these  respective  characters,  the  Trickster-Statesman  ; 
the  Politician  ;  the  Military  Chieftain,  and  the  General  of  the  People. 

Let  us  fancy  for  a  moment,  that  these  scenes,  take  place,  at  the  same 
hour,  on  the  same  day,  within  a  circle  of  two  thousand  miles  : 

It  is  the  Senate  Hall  of  a  great  nation,  crowded  with  solemn  men, 
Avhose  faces  are  seen,  by  the  same  light  which  glows  upon  the  portrait 
of  Washington.  Amid  that  crowd  of  renowned  man,  a  Senator  arises, 
distinguished  by  his  dark  complexion,  his  brilliant  eye,  and  deep,  ringing 
voice.  He  has  been  sent  hither  by  the  people  of  a  state,  to  speak  for 
them,  with  that  picture  of  Washington  before  his  face.  He  fulfils  his 
high  responsibility  in  these  words  : 

"  This  is  a  cruel,  black,  horrible,  murderous  war.  Those  soldiers 
whom  we  have  sent  to  a  foreign  land,  are  assassins  and  robbers.  Were 
I  a  Mexican,  as  I  am  an  American,  I  would  say  to  them,  have  you  no 
graves  in  your  own  country,  that  you  come  here  to  die  !  Yes,  I  would 
welcome  them  all,  these  robbers  and  assassins  with  bloody  hands  and  a 
hospitable  grave." 


claimed  him,  sacrificed  him,  without  remorse,  in  a  Harrisburg  Convention. — His 
fame,  at  this  time,  comes  not  from  the  leaders  of  a  party,  but  from  the  honest  senti 
ment  of  a  People. 

The  people  who  are  divided  into  two  parties,  are  one  in  feeling  :  alike  Democratic 
to  the  core.  There  is  no  real  difference  between  honest  men  of  either  party.  They 
hold  the  same  opinions,  modified  by  locality.  The  difference  between  them,  is  pre 
cisely  such,  as  would  exist  between  any  two  bands  of  honest  men,  who  might  be 
arrayed  against  each  other,  by  hypocrites  and  robbers.  In  the  North,  among  both 
parties,  in  1844,  the  Tariff  sentiment  prevailed,  as  in  the  South,  among  both  parties, 
the  Free  Trade  doctrine  was  a  common  opinion.  This  cannot  be  denied — And  yet 
the  people,  divided  into  these  parties,  were  in  North  and  South,  arrayed  against  each 
other,  on  the  ground  of  "Principle."  Principle,  by  the  last  political  dictionary, 
meaneth  loaves,  and  fishes  and  places.  To  hear  these  pot-house  heroes,  within  their 
tavern  breaths,  reel  to  the  pools,  shouting—"  Principle  !"  is  it  not  enough  to  make 
the  heart  grow  sick  ? 

To  make  the  matter  plain,  let  us  take  the  last  cases  of  political  honesty,  as  mani- 


RESACA  DE   LA  PALMA.  105 

The  Senator  speaks  his  patriotic  heart,  in  these  words,  and  sitting 
down,  looks  the  portrait  of  Washington  in  the  face. 

This  is  a  politician  ;  but  only  a  fancy  sketch,  you  will  remember. 

Gaze  yonder  through  the  glittering  circles  of  the  Havanna  theatre, 
where  a  man  of  mature  manhood,  attired  in  a  green  and  gold  uniform, 
with  the  traces  of  battle  manifested  in  his  amputated  limb,  sits  smiling 
quietly,  his  pale  melancholy  face  and  high  forehead,  the  object  of  a  thou 
sand  eyes.  That  man  is  a  Military  Chieftain,  who  has  carved  his  way 
with  sword,  overturning  tire  governments  of  his  native  land,  at  pleasure, 
with  his  iron-faced  soldiers,  and  playing  in  his  tumultuous  life,  these 
varied  parts — President,  Dictator,  Exile.  As  he  reclines  in  the  crowded 
theatre,  pausing  for  a  moment,  ere  he  leaves  the  dance  and  song,  for  the 
more  intellectual  amusement  of  the  cock-pit,  his  native  land  is  the  scene 
of  bloody  battles,  his  country's  flag  the  object  of  accumulated  dishonor. 

And  at  the  very  moment,  when  rising  in  the  Havanna  theatre,  he  draws 
a  thousand  eyes  to  his  singularly  impressive  face,  in  the  city  of  Washing 
ton,  by  the  lamp  of  a  cabinet  council,  you  behold  a  man  of  somewhat 
portly  form,  his  face  dead-white  in  hue,  his  eyes  clear  azure,  bending 
over  a  table,  in  the  act  of  writing  an  important  paper.  It  is  one  of  the 
Rulers  of  the  American  People.  The  paper  which  he  writes,  it  must  be 
confessed,  is  important  in  the  last  degree  :  for  it  is  a  Passport,  which 
worded  as  it  may  be,  still  bears  but  one  meaning — it  commands  the  Cap 
tains  of  American  ships-of-war,  to  permit  Santa  Anna  to  enter  Vera  Cruz, 
or  in  other  words,  solicits  the  Military  Chieftain  to  leave  the  Havanna 
theatre,  return  to  his  native  land,  and  fight  old  Zachary  Taylor  at  Buena 
Vista. 

— And  yet,  the  man  in  the  city  of  Washington,  with  the  dead  white 
face  and  porcelain  blue  eyes,  is  a  Statesman. — You  will  remember,  this 
is  still  but  a  fancy  picture. — 

Or,  should  you  wish  to  gaze  upon  another  Statesman,  not  a  military 

fested  in  two  papers,  published  in  a  well-known  city,  one  Democratic,  one  Whig; 
holy  names,  which  are  prostituted,  every  day,  at  the  head  of  their  columns. 

The  so-called  Democratic  paper,  admired  the  course  of  Taylor,  applauded  the  mo 
ral  power,  the  giant  intellect,  displayed  in  his  battles,  in  the  fatherly  care  of  his  sol 
diers,  in  his  magnanimous  treatment  of  the  foe,  and  yet,  solemnly,  and  with  the 
unctuous  tears  of  office,  in  its  eyes,  doubted  his — principles. 

The  Whig  paper — gravely  called  so — edited  by  two  or  three  political  Jonahs,  cast 
up  from  the  whales'  bellies  of  as  many  factions,  derided  the  war,  and  for  the  space  of 
one  year,  day  after  day,  and  columns  after  columns,  called  it  a  '  black,  bloody,  infer 
nal  butchery'  in  fact,  preached  that  kind  of  treason,  which  would  have  hung  the  Edi 
tors,  in  the  days  of  a  man  called  Washington,  and  left  them  on  the  gibbet,  with  the 
label,  TRAITOR  on  each  brow — This  paper,  after  twelve  months  of  elaborate  sympa 
thy  with  Santa  Anna,  came  0411,  one  fine  morning,  with  the  name  of  Taylor  as  its 
Candidate  for  President ! — The  old  man  received  the  news  of  this  nomination,  just 
after  his  battle  of  Buena  Vista,  and  trampled  it  under  foot,  as  Washington  would 
have  trampled  a  nomination  from  the  lips  of  Benedict  Arnold. 


106  THE  BATTLES   OF  TAYLOR. 

chieftain,  for  such  personages  are  dreadful  to  contemplate,  but  a  Statesman 
of  the  highest  order,  gaze  yonder,  into  the  hallowed  walls  of  Faneuil  Hall, 
and  behold  that  muscularly  formed  man,  tower  above  the  heads  of  thou 
sands,  the  light  shining  upon  his  massive  forehead,  as  with  his  thunder- 
tones,  he  utters  words  like  these  : 

"  What  shall  we  say  of  this  unconstitutional  war  with  Mexico?  Where 
will  we  find  words  to  express  our  withering  disapprobation  of  its  measures 
and  its  men?  Yet  hold — it  is  an  American  habit,  not  to  count  the  horrors 
of  a  war,  the  blood,  the  tears,  the  groans,  the  sighs, — but  the  COST!" 

With  his  thunder  tones,  in  Faneuil  Hall,  he  uttered  this  sentiment,  and 
spoke  it  boldly  before  the  Portrait  of  John  Hancock,  and  heard  a  thousand 
voices  answer  him  with  deep  hurrahs.  He  spoke  it,  in  the  birth-place  of 
the  Revolution,  where  the  Adamses  had  been,  and  in  sight  of  the  hill 
where  Warren  fell,  and  did  not  feel  that  he  was  a  blot  upon  that  sacred 
soil,  a  living  scorn  upon  the  dead,  a  Traitor  for  all  his  burning  eyes  and 
snow-white  hair.  O,  that  stout  John  Adams  could  have  started  from  his 
grave,  and-  heard  the  pedlar's  throats  of  Faneuil  Hall  shriek  like  a  Puri 
tan  hallelujah,  the  word — "  COST  !' 

Yet  this  man  is  called  a  statesman,  not  military  chieftain,  ah,  no  !  But 
as  the  pious  folks  of  Puritan  land  have  it,  a  Godlike  statesman. 

— Still  it  is  only  a  fancy  picture.     Remember  that ! — 

And  while  the  politician  on  the  floor  of  the  Senate,  prepares  for  Ameri 
can  Soldiers,  his  bloody  hands  and  hospitable  grave,  while  Santa  Anna 
enjoys  his  game  cocks  in  Havanna  and  the  Statesman  writes  his  passport 
in  Washington,  while  the  Godlike  Statesman  in  Faneuil  Hall,  proclaimed 
to  all  the  world,  that  it  was  an  American  habit,  not  to  count  the  blood  and 

tears  of  a  war,  but  the  Cost here,  beside  the  Rio  Grande,  with  the 

evening  star  shining  upon  his  bronzed  face,  behold  the  object  of  all  their 
schemes,  that  plain  old  man,  in  the  brown  coat,  covered  with  the  blood 
and  laurels  of  two  victories,  which  all  America  had  feared,  would  have 
been  but  Massacres  to  himself  and  his  little  band,  here  beside  the  dead 
liody  of  his  brother  soldier,  he  stands,  and  murmurs — 

'  I  SAID  I  WOULD  REACH  FORT  BROWN  IF  I  LIVED,  AND  I  AM  HERE  1" 


MONTEREY.  107 


VI.— MONTEREY. 

THEY  tell  me  that  Monterey  is  beautiful ;  that  it  lies  among  the  snow- 
white  mountains,  whose  summits  reach  the  clouds. 

It  sleeps  beneath  us  now. 

While  the  moon,  parting  from  the  white  mountain  tops,  sails  in  the 
serene  upper  air,  we  will  stand  among  the  trees  of  the  Walnut  Grove, 
and  behold  the  slumbering  city. 

These  trees,  beneath  whose  leaves  we  stand,  speak  of  the  ages  that 
are  gone.  So  massive  in  their  trunks,  so  wide-spreading  in  their  branches, 
so  luxuriant  in  their  foliage.  The  moonlight  trembles  through  the  quiver 
ing  leaves,  and  reveals  the  rich  garniture  of  the  soil.  It  blooms  with 
tropical  fruits  and  flowers.  Around  the  giant  columns  of  Walnut,  the 
jessamine  and  the  wild  rose,  the  lily  and  the  orange  blossom,  spread  their 
tapestry  of  rainbow  dyes.  The  air  is  drowsy  with  excess  of  perfume. 
And  from  the  shadows,  flash  the  mountain  streams,  singing  the  midnight 
anthem,  ere  they  plunge  below. 

It  is  the  Grove  of  the  Walnut  Springs  in  which  we  stand  ;  a  grand 
Cathedral  of  Nature,  whose  pillars  are  Walnut  trees,  five  hundred  years 
old,  whose  canopy  is  woven  leaves  and  vines,  whose  baptismal  font  is 
the  pure  mountain  spring,  whose  incense  is  perfume,  that  intoxicates 
every  sense,  and  whose  offerings  are  flowers,  that  bewilder  the  gaze, 
with  their  fresh,  their  virgin  beauty. 

And  from  the  grove,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  we  gaze  upon  the  city, 
that  Amazon  Queen,  who  reclines  so  royally  among  her  warrior  moun 
tains. 

It  is  a  city  of  singularly  impressive  features,  that  reposes  yonder.  To 
the  north,  to  the  south,  to  the  west,  the  mountains  rise,  girdled  with  tro 
pical  fruits  and  foliage,  and  mantled  on  their  brows,  with  glittering  snow. 
On  the  east,  green  with  cornfields,  and  beautiful  with  groves  of  orange 
trees,  spreads  a  level  plain. 

Those  orange  groves,  seem  to  love  the  city  of  the  Royal  Mountain. 
For  they  girdle  her  dark  stone  walls,  with  their  white  blossoms,  and  hang 
their  golden  fruit  above  her  battlemented  roofs.  From  this  elevated  grove, 
toward  the  south,  around  the  sleeping  city,  winds  the  beautiful  river  of 
San  Juan,  now  hidden  among  pomegranate  trees,  now  sending  a  silvery 
branch  into  the  town,  again  flashing  on,  beside  its  castled  walls. 

Below  us,  with  its  roofs  laid  bare  to  the  moonlight,  we  behold  each 
tower  and  dome,  of  the  mountain  city.  It  is  a  place  of  narrow  streets, 
and  one  storied  houses,  with  walls  and  floors  of  stone.  Above  each  level 
roof,  rises  a  battlement,  breast  high  ;  the  streets  are  crossed  by  huge  piles 
of  masonry,  and  the  whole  town,  presents  the  appearance  of  an  immense 


108  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

fortress,  linked  together  by  bands  of  stone,  adorned  with  gardens,  and 
gloomy  with  towers  of  rock  and  steel. 

Far  to  the  west,  a  huge  steep,  crowned  with  a  mass  of  stone,  varied 
with  cannon,  casts  its  heavy  shadow, — a  long  beltof  blackness— over  the 
town.  That  is  the  Bishop's  Palace. 

Here,  before  us,  east  of  the  city,  their  outlines  seen  above  the  river, 
and  the  groves  of  orange  blossoms,  these  castleated  mounds,  rise  clearly 
in  the  air.  Yonder,  on  the  north,  glooms  the  massive  citadel.  Thus 
girdled  by  defences  of  stone,  iron  and  steel,  thus  sheltered  by  its  moun 
tains  of  fruit  and  snow,  the  city  of  the  Royal  Mountain,  may  well  seem 
impregnable. 

Yonder,  toward  the  south,  among  its  homes  of  stone,  you  behold  an 
open  space  ;  the  grand  Plaza  of  Monterey.  There  rise  the  cathedral 
towers,  heaving  above  their  peaks,  and  domes  of  stone,  the  golden  cross 
into  the  midnight  sky.  Look  !  How  it  glitters  above  the  town,  smiling 
back  to  heaven,  the  beams  of  the  rising  moon. 

It  is  impregnable,  this  mountain  city.  No  arms  can  take  it;  no 
cannon  blast  its  impenetrable  walls.  The  Bishop's  Palace  on  one  side, 
the  three  forts  on  the  other,  the  citadel  on  the  north,  the  river  on  the 
east  and  south  ;  it  is  shut  in  by  stone,  by  water,  by  iron  and  by  flame. 

And  yet,  not  many  months  ago — sit  by  me,  while  the  moon  shines  over 
the  city,  and  I  will  tell  you  the  story — there  came  to  this  grove,  an  old 
man,  mounted  on  a  grey  charger,  and  clad  in  a  plain  brown  coat.  On 
the  mountains  that  frown  toward  the  east,  through  the  ravines,  that  darken 
there,  he  came  followed  by  six  thousand  men.  He  encamped  in  this 
grove  of  walnut  trees,  and  the  arms  of  his  soldiers  shone  gaily,  from  the 
white  waste  of  orange  blossoms.  He  stood,  where  now,  we  stand,  he 
gazed  first  upon  his  men,  his  horses,  his  cannon,  and  then  upon  the  city, 
which  though  it  smiles  to  us,  in  the  light  of  the  morn,  gloomed  in 
his  face,  by  the  beams  of  day — from  every  roof,  and  rock  and  tower — • 
with  one  deadly  frown. 

The  old  man  saw  it  crowded  by  nine  thousand  armed  men.  He  saw 
«very  roof  transformed  into  a  castle,  formidable  with  its  death  array  of 
cannon  and  steel,  the  Cathedral,  with  its  cross,  and  image  of  Jesus,  con 
verted  into  a  magazine  of  gunpowder — a  silent  volcano,  that  only  wanted 
the  impulse  of  a  single  spark,  to  make  it  blaze  and  thunder. 

And  yet  the  old  man,  after  his  silent  gaze,  turned  to  his  brother  heroes, 
among  whom  Butler  and  Twiggs,  and  Worth  of  the  Waving  Plume, 
stood  prominent,  and  said  in  his  quiet  way  : 

"  The  town  is  before  us.     We  will  take  it." 

Then  every  soldier  in  that  army  of  six  thousand  men,  took  his  com 
rade  by  the  hand  and  said :  "  If  I  fall,  swear  that  you  will  bury  my 
corse  /" 

For  every  heart  felt  that  the  contest  must  be  horrible  and  deadly. 


MONTEREY.  109 

The  heroes  of  the  prairie,  the  Men  of  Palo  Alto  and  Resaca  De  La 
Palraa,  were  there.  Mingled  with  these  iron  soldiers,  you  might  see  the 
men  of  Mississippi  and  Louisianna,  Maryland,  Tennessee  and  Ohio, 
Kentucky  and  Texas.  The  farms  and  the  work-shops  of  the  American 
Union,  had  heard  the  cry,  which  shrieked  from  the  twin-battle-fields  of 
Palo  Alto,  and  Resaca  De  La  Palma,  heard  it,  and  sent  forth  their  beardless 
boys,  their  grey  haired  men,  to  the  rescue.  The  sugar  and  the  cotton  plan 
tations  of  the  south,  the  prairies  of  the  north,  the  mountains  of  Pennsyl 
vania,  the  blue-hills  of  Kentucky,  that  dark  and  bloody  ground,  the  massa 
cre  fields  of  Texas,  all  sent  their  men  to  swell  the  ranks  of  the  New  Cru 
sade.  The  same  Banner  that  waved  over  Bunker  Hill,  and  Saratoga  and 
Brandywine,  from  the  Walnut  Grove,  flashed  the  light  of  its  stars  over 
Monterey. 

The  fight  began  on  the  Twenty-First  of  September,  1847,  and  tracked 
its  bloody  course,  over  the  Twenty-Second,  and  did  not  cease  its  howl 
of  murder,  when  the  sun  went  down,  on  the  Twenty-Third. 

You  may  be  sure  that  it  was  horrible,  this  battle  of  street  and  square, 
of  roof  and  cliff,  of  mountain  and  gorge.  It  was  a  storm — hurled  from 
the  mouths  of  musquets,  cannon  and  mortar,  wrapping  cliff  and  dome  in 
its  dark  pall,  and  flashing  its  lightning  in  the  face  of  Sun,  Moon,  and 
Stars,  for  three  days.  You  may  be  sure,  that  the  orange  groves,  mowed 
down  by  the  cannons  blaze,  showered  their  white  blossoms  over  the 
faces  of  the  dead.  That  the  San  Juan,  sparkling  in  the  moon,  like  silver 
now,  then  blushed  crimson,  as  if  in  shame,  for  the  horrible  work  that 
was  going  on.  That  nothing  but  shots,  groans,  shouts,  yells,  the  sharp 
crack  of  the  rifle,  the  deep  boom  of  the  cannon,  was  heard  throughout 
those  three  days  of  blood.  That  in  the  battle  trenches,  lay  the  dead  men, 
American  and  Mexican,  their  silent  groups  swelled  every  moment  by  new 
corses,  looking  with  glassy  eyes  into  each  other's  faces.  That  many  a 
beautiful  woman,  nestling  in  her  darkened  home,  was  crushed  in  her  white 
bosom  by  the  cannon  ball,  or  splintered  in  the  forehead,  just  above  the 
dark  eyes,  by  the  musquet  shot. 

And  amid  the  fight,  whether  it  blazed  in  volumes  of  flame,  or  rolled  in 
waves  of  smoke,  you  may  be  sure  two  objects  were  distinctly  seen — the 
white  plume  of  the  chivalrous  Worth,  and  the  familiar  brown  coat  of  stout 
Zachary  Taylor. 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  the  Twenty-First,  when  the  rising  sun  shone 
over  the  groves  of  orange  and  pomegranate,  the  fields  of  corn,  and  the 
girdle  of  rocks  and  waves,  encircling  the  mountain  city,  that  suddenly, 
a  mass  of  white  smoke  heaved  upward  from  the  ravines,  yawning  about 
the  Bishop's  Palace,  and  rolling  cloud  on  cloud,  wrapt  those  towers  in  its 
folds,  and  stretched  like  an  immense  shroud  along  the  western  sky. 

Beneath  that  smoke,  Worth  and  his  Men  were  commencing  the  Battle 
of  Monterey,  on  the  West  of  the  town. 


HO  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

At  the  same  moment,  around  these  forts  on  the  east,  a  cloud  of  smoke 
arose,  it  swept  away  toward  the  citadel,  and  soon  melted  into  the  cloud 
on  the  west. 

Under  its  pall,  Taylor  and  his  men  were  advancing  upon  the  town  from 
the  north  and  east.  Thus  the  city  of  the  Royal  Mountain,  was  girdled  by 
a  pall  of  battle-smoke,  and  thus,  from  opposite  sides  of  the  town,  Taylor 
and  Worth  fought  their  ways  of  blood,  toward  each  other,  driving  nine 
thousand  Mexicans,  with  AMPUDIA  at  their  head,  into  a  centre  of  death 
and  flame. 

Night  came  and  went  and  came  again,  and  still  the  fight  went  on.  One 
by  one,  the  three  batteries  on  the  east,  fell  before  the  arms  of  Taylor. 
Over  the  impregnable  heights  of  the  Bishop's  Palace,  waved  the  Banner 
of  the  Stars.  The  city  saw  not  a  glimpse  of  blue  sky,  for  in  the  air  hung 
a  canopy  of  battle-cloud,  and  over  the  roofs  the  gunpowder  spread  its  pes 
tilential  mist.  There  was  neither  food,  nor  shelter  anywhere.  God  pity 
the  women  then,  who,  shuddering  in  cellars  and  burrowing  in  dark  rooms, 
clutched  to  their  breasts  the  children  of  their  love  !  In  the  Cathedral  no 
prayer  was  spoken,  no  mass  sung  the  deep  anthem,  or  waved  from  censers 
the  snowy  incense.  The  Image  of  Jesus  was  wrapt  in  the  battle-cloud  ; 
that  divine  face,  for  once,  seemed  to  frown.  Mild  Mother  Mary,  above 
the  altar,  was  clad  in  a  robe  of  smoke,  and  her  sad  and  tender  face  grew 
livid,  ghastly,  with  gleams  of  battle  flame. 

There  was  no  rest  for  the  sole  of  human  foot,  no  slumber  but  the  slum 
ber  of  the  bloody  ditch,  or  dark  ravine.  None  slept  but  the  dead. 

And  still,  from  the  west,  the  cannon  of  Worth  hurled  their  message  to 
Taylor  on  the  east,  and  evermore  the  cannon  of  Taylor  thundered  their 
reply.  Nearer  grew  those  sounds  %  each  other,  and  closer  in  the  fiery 
circle,  Ampudia  and  his  Mexicans  were  hemmed.  Over  the  roofs,  through 
the  battered  houses,  beyond  their  battered  barricades,  they  were  driven 
by  Worth  and  Taylor,  until  the  battle  gathered  to  one  point,  and  above 
the  main  plaza  where  the  moon  shines  so  calmly  now,  on  Cathedral  and 
Cross,  hung  the  accumulated  cloud  of  three  day's  agony. 

And  to  this  grove  of  the  Walnut  Springs,  where  at  this  hour,  the  moon 
breaks  in  tender  light,  on  each  massive  tree  and  perfumed  flower,  the 
battle  mangled  were  brought  to  bleed  and  die.  The  sod,  spreading  so 
thick  with  blossoms  all  around  us,  grew  purple  with  a  bath  of  blood. 
Hearts,  that  had  once  quivered  to  the  pressure  of  a  woman's  bosom,  were 
frozen  in  this  grove,  and  eyes,  that  had  looked  tenderly  into  the  eyes  of 
Wife,  Mother,  Child,  grew  glassy  beneath  the  walnut  leaves. 

But  amid  all  the  horror  of  the  fight,  the  Mountains  yonder, — like  calm 
Demons,  impenetrable  to  the  yell  of  slaughter,  or  the  howl  of  agony, — 
lifted  their  snowy  tops,  and  shone  on,  whether  lighted  by  the  sun,  or 
moon,  or  stars,  or  battle-flash. 


MONTEREY.  Ill 

Crouching  in  a  darkened  chamber,  two  Mexican  girls  flung  their  arras 
about  each  other's  necks,  and  buried  their  faces  in  their  flowing  hair. 
Through  the  small  window  toward  the  west,  half-covered  with  vines,  a 
few  wandering  gleams  of  sunlight  shone.  Ever  and  again,  a  red  flash 
bathed  the  room  in  crimson  light.  It  was  a  spacious  room,  with  stone 
walls,  hidden  in  purple  hangings,  and  a  marble  floor,  strewn  with  the 
wrecks  of  books  and  harps  and  flowers. 

In  one  corner  stood  a  small  couch,  its  ruffled  pillows,  yet  bearing  the 
outlines  of  those  two  virgin  forms. 

From  that  couch  they  had  darted  suddenly,  and  with  their  half-naked 
forms  quivering  with  affright,  flung  themselves  on  the  marble  floor,  near 
the  window,  where  a  Cross  glittered  in  its  shadowy  recess. 

And  now,  as  their  white  shoulders  and  uncovered  feet  glowed  in  the 
feeble  light,  their  faces  were  hidden  on  each  other's  breasts  among  their 
luxuriant  hair. 

You  may  see  their  limbs  quiver,  you  may  see  the  scanty  robe,  which 
but  half-conceals  each  virgin  form,  move  tremulously  with  each  movement 
of  their  bodies,  but  their  faces  you  cannot  see. 

It  is  now  near  sunset,  on  this  fearful  Twenty-Third  of  September,  1846. 
For  three  days,  these  girls  have  awaited  the  return  of  their  father  from  the 
battle.  Three  days  ago,  they  saw  him  go  forth  on  his  grey  war-horse, 
an  old  but  muscular  man,  whose  olive  cheek,  seamed  with  wrinkles,  and 
dark  hair  mingled  with  the  snowy  flakes  of  age,  were  shadowed  by  plumes 
of  fiery  crimson.  They  saw  him,  in  his  costume  of  national  green,  dash 
from  the  door  of  their  home  toward  the  battle.  By  his  side,  their  brother 
rode  ;  a  manly  boy  of  nineteen,  whose  jet-black  hair,  gathered  in  thick 
curls  around  his  young  forehead,  while  his  sinewy  arm  waved  his  sword 
in  the  morning  air. 

So  gallantly,  from  their  garden-encircled  home  of  Monterey,  they  went 
forth  together,  the  father  and  son,  their  uniform  flashing  back  the  light, 
from  every  star  of  gold,  while  the  necks  of  their  steeds  proudly  arched, 
their  plumes  fluttering  in  the  breeze,  their  figures  quivering  with  the  im 
pulse  of  the  fight— all  gave  omen  of  a  bloody  battle  and  a  certain  triumph. 

For  three  days  the  maidens  had  waited  for  them,  but  they  came  not. 
For  three  days  and  nights,  the  roar  of  the  ^ght  s/welling  afar,  had  startled 
slumber  from  their  eyes.  But  now  that  roar  grew  nearer ;  it  deepened 
into  thunder  ;  it  spoke  more  plainly.  Quivering  in  every^ierve,  as  they 
knelt  on  the  floor,  they  could  distinctly  hear  the  separate  voices  of  the 
battle— now  the  rifle's  shriek,  now  the  musquet's  peal,  now  the  cannon's 
thunder  shout.  » 

And  the  storm  grew  nearer  their  house ;  it  seemed  to  rage  all  around 
them,  for  those  terrible  sounds  never  for  one  moment  ceated,  and  the  red 
flash  poured  through  the  narrow  window,  in  one  incessant  sheet  of  battle 
lightning. 


U2  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

Still  the  Father,  the  Brother  came  not ! 

Hark !  That  crash,  which  shakes  the  chamber,  like  an  earthquake  ! 
The  girls  lift  their  faces,  from  among  their  flowing  hair,  and  you  may 
read  the  volume  of  their  contrasted  loveliness. 

This,  with  her  warm,  voluptuous  bosom,  and  the  rich  brown  cheek, 
shadowed  by  the  raven  hair — Ximena.  The  other,  with  the  fair  cheek, 
and  snowy  breast,  and  large  eyes,  that  remind  you  of  the  deep  azure 
of  a  starry  midnight,  the  hair  that  floats,  in  curls  of  chesnut  brown — 
Teresa. 

Their  beautiful  tresses  twining  together,  in  mingled  dyes  of  light  and 
shade,  the  full,  luxuriant  form  of  Ximena,  contrasted  with  the  more  deli 
cate  figure  of  Teresa,  those  dark  eyes,  swimming  in  tears,  the  maidens 
half-starting  from  their  knees,  presented  a  picture  of  touching  loveli 
ness. 

Around  them  strewn,  their  torn  books,  broken  harps  and  withered 
flowers  ;  before  them,  smiling  from  its  dark  recess,  that  solitary 
cross  ! 

Again  that  crash,  again  that  red  light  streaming  through  the  window  i 
With  one  bound  the  girls  sprang  to  their  feet,  and  gazed  upon  the  door, 
whose  panels  you  may  distinguish  yonder,  among  the  purple  curtaining. 

"  They  come  !"  shrieked  Ximena,  and  gathered  her  Sister  to  her  heart. 

Deep  shouts  were  heard,  the  tramp  of  armed  men,  resounding  through 
a  narrow  passage — another  crash !  The  door  gave  way,  and  the  red 
battle  light  rushed  into  the  place.  The  door  gave  way,  and  as  it  clanged 
upon  the  floor,  a  dying  man  fell  backward  upon  its  panels,  the  broken 
sword,  firmly  clutched  in  his  hand,  the  blood,  pouring  in  a  stream  from 
the  wound  in  his  chest. 

His  throat  bare,  his  dark  hair  sprinkled  with  silver,  hanging  damp  and 
clotted  above  his  wrinkled  brow,  he  glared  upward  with  his  glazing  eyes 
— made  an  effort  to  rise — and  fell  back,  writhing  in  his  death  agony. 

Above  him,  the  foremost  of  a  band,  attired  in  blue,  stood  a  slender,  but 
athletic  form,  his  upraised  arm,  still  waving  its  sword,  red  with  the  blood 
of  the  prostrate  enemy.  His  face,  was  very  pale,  but  his  hazel  eye, 
shone  with  the  mad  light  of  carnage. 

At  a  glance,  the  girls  behold  the  form  of  that  dying  man,  the  figure  of 
Murderer — and  a  shriek,  that  made  his  blood  grow  chill,  though  it  raged 
with  the  battle  fever — filled  the  place. 

The  American,  in  the  doorway,  felt  his  nerveless  arm  drop  by  his  side. 
Even  as  the  sword  dripped  its  red  tears  upon  the  floor,  he  beheld  those 
girls,  kneeling  beside  the  dying  man,  and  heard  one  word  quiver  from 
their  lips — 

"  Father !" 

It  was  in  the  Spanish  tongue,  but  he  read  its  meaning  in  their  extended 


MONTEREY.  113 

arms,  in  their  faces,  stamped  with  agony,  in  their  bared  bosoms,  wildly 
pressed  against  the  bleeding  chest  of  his  foe. 

They  looked  up  into  his  face  ;  they  raised  their  eyes  to  this  young 
pale  brow,  and  spoke  once  more — 

"  Our  Father !" 

The  young  American  felt  his  fingers  stiffen,  heard  his  bloody  sword 
clatter  on  the  floor. 

"  His  pistol  it  was,  that  shot  my  comrade  by  my  side,  even  as  we  came 
charging  up  the  Plaza,  his — " 

He  shrieked  these  words,  driven  to  madness,  by  their  accusing  looks, 
but  he  could  say  no  more.  For  he  too  had  a  grey-haired  father,  he  too, 
among  the  hills  of  Pennsylvania,  in  the  old  farm  house,  at  the  end  of 
the  lane,  where  mill-stream  wind  among  the  woods,  had  two  sisters  ! 
That  father  blessed  him  when  he  left  home  for  the  wars,  those  sisters 
pressed  their  warm  kisses  on  his  lips,  as  they  gasped  farewell  ! 

Now,  upon  the  threshhold  of  the  Mexican  home  he  stood,  the  dying 
father,  writhing  before  his  eyes,  while  his  daughters,  with  their  bared 
bosoms,  sought  to  staunch  the  flowing  of  the  blood,  which  hissed,  warm 
and  smoking  from  his  heart.  There,  he  stood,  the  Murderer,  in  presence 
of  his  victim,  with  the  eyes  of  those  beautiful  sisters  upon  his  face  ! 

The  sight  was  two  much  for  him. 

Waving  his  comrades  back — they  were  all  young  men,  like  him,  unused 
to  scenes  of  blood,  their  veins  fired  for  the  first  time,  with  the  lust  of  car 
nage — he  flung  himself  upon  the  floor,  and  with  his  hands,  pressed  over 
the  wound,  madly  endeavored  to  stop  the  blood,  that  glided  through  his 
fingers,  and  dashed  into  his  face. 

But  the  dying  old  Mexican,  with  distorted  features  and  glazing  eyes, 
muttered  a  curse  with  his  livid  lips,  and  feebly  endeavored  to  withdraw 
himself,  from  the  touch  of  the  American. 

Those  half-clad  maidens,  with  frenzy  in  their  eyes,  tore  their  glossy 
hair,  and  beat  their  breasts  with  their  clenched  hands,  as  they  felt,  that 
there  was  no  longer  a  hope  for  the  old  man,  their  father. 

The  American,  on  his  knees,  beside  them,  saw  the  unspeakable  agony, 
written  on  each  face,  and  knew  himself,  a  guilty  and  blood-stained  man. 

"  He  shot  my  comrade,"  the  words  came  faintly  from  his  lips — "  My 
blood  was  up — I  pursued  him — we  fought — fought  on  over  heaps  of  dead, 

to  the  door — and but  I  did  not  think  of  this  !     To  stab  an  old  man, 

on  the  threshhold  of  his  home,  in  the  presence  of  his  children !" 

Again  he  sank  beside  the  dying  man,  but  those  lips,  now  changed  to  a 
clayish  blue,  only  moved  to  curse  again.  With  extended  arms,  he  fell 
before  the  maidens,  but  their  looks  of  horror,  as  they  shrank  from  him 
with  outspread  arms,  gave  no  hope  of  forgiveness. 

At  last  he  rose,  and  standing  among  the  curtains,  near  the  doorway, 

14 


H4    •          THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

where  the  shadows  were  thickest,  folded  his  arms  and  contemplated  the 
scene. 

Here  Ximena,  chafing  with  her  warm  palms  the  chilled  hands  of  her 
father,  her  hair,  streaming  wildly  over  her  shoulders,  stained  with  the 
warm  blood  of  his  heart ;  there,  Teresa,  with  the  head  of  the  dying  man, 
on  her  lap,  her  fingers  pressed  upon  his  clammy  brow,  her  blue  eyes  weep 
ing  their  tears  like  rain,  on  his  glassy  eye-balls. 

"  It  cuts  my  heart  like  a  dagger" — the  American  forced  the  words  be 
tween  his  set  teeth — "  I  have  a  father  too,  away  in  Pennsylvania,  and 
sisters  too,  that  resemble  these  girls." —  ' 

He  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Scarce  knowing  what  he  did,  only  wish 
ing  to  turn  his  eyes  away  from  that  sight,  he  plunged  among  the  hangings, 
and  found  himself  at  the  foot  of  a  narrow  stairway.  A  moment  had  not 
passed,  when  he  emerged  upon  the  flat  roof,  with  its  battlement  of  stone. 
His  cheek  was  pale  as  death — before  the  battle  he  had  suffered  much  with 
fever — and  the  emotions,  fast  crowding  round  his  heart,  gave  an  unnatural 
gleam  to  this  eye. 

He  approached  the  battlement,  and  started  away.  The  scene  beneath, 
was  at  once  horrible  and  sublime.  That  roof,  commanded  a  free  view  of 
the  Plaza  of  the  city  and  all  the  avenues  leading  to  it.  Again  he  ap 
proached,  and  gazed  upon  the  Last  Fight  of  Monterey. 

Imagine  a  space,  two  hundred  yards  square,  walled  in  by  houses,  one 
story  high,  frowning  with  battlements.  This  space  is  packed  with  one 
dense  mass  of  infuriated  soldiers,  half  naked,  their  faces  scarce  distin 
guishable  beneath  the  stain  of  powder  and  blood.  They  shout,  they  yell, 
they  roll  to  and  fro,  like  the  waves  of  a  whirlpool.  Here  you  may  dis 
tinguish  the  American,  there  the  Mexican  uniform. 

From  every  battlement,  lined  w,ith  frenzied  Mexicans,  pours  the  blaze 
of  musquetry,  hurling  the  death,  alike  on  friend  and  foe.  Beneath,  bay 
onet  to  bayonet,  and  knife  to  knife,  over  the  pavement,  slippery  with  blood, 
the  contest  is  maintained.  As  the  ranks  of  the  battling  legions,  move 
aside,  or  part  for  a  moment,  you  may  behold,  the  cold  faces  of  the  dead, 
amid  their  fiercest  roar,  you  hear  the  deep  piercing  yell  of  the  wounded. 

Over  this  scene,  glooms  the  Cathedral,  its  towers  only  half  seen  amid 
the  clouds  of  smoke  which  toss  around  them. 

That  cross  glitters  in  the  setting  sun,  but  all  below  is  dim,  dark,  bloody. 
Just  as  you  have  seen,  a  mist  hover  above  a  summit,  so  that  thick  cloud, 
glooms  over  the  grand  Plaza  of  Monterey,  its  edges  tinted  with  sunset 
gold,  while  all  beside  is  dark. 

And  toward  this  Plaza,  like  separate  streams  of  blood,  rushing  from 
north  and  south  and  east  and  west,  toward  one  great  lake  of  carnage,  the 
three  days  battle  rolls  by  every  street  and  avenue,  along  these  roofs,  and 
through  yonder  smoking  ruins. 

Yonder  to  the  west,  far  over  the  heads  of  advancing  Americans  cast 


MONTEREY.  115 

your  gaze,  among  the  whirling  combatants,  you  sec  the  White  Pliuae,  wav 
ing  in  the  battle  light.  WORTH  is  there  !  Like  a  cavalier  of  old  he  rides  to 
battle,  his  graceful  and  commanding  figure,  clad  in  full  uniform,  his  head 
placed  proudly  on  his  shoulders,  his  broad  chest,  thrown  forward,  as  if  in 
defiance  of  the  danger  and  the  death,  around  him. 

To  the  east,  turn  your  eye  !  Down,  this  avenue,  where  the  cannon's 
blaze  their  fire,  into  the  faces  of  the  recoiling  Mexicans,  where  the  clouds 
now  come  down  like  Night,  and  now  roll  away,  leaving  the  scene,  to  the 
warm  glow  of  the  setting  sun,  down  this  lane  of  blood,  amid  the  charging 
squadrons,  you  behold  a  warrior,  on  a  grey  horse,  with  a  brown  coat, 
thrown  back  from  his  broad  chest,  while  a  plain  cap,  surmounts  his 
bronzed  face  and  flashing  eyes.  TAYLOR  is  there  ! 

They  hear  each  other's  shouts,  the  iMen  of  Worth  and  Taylor,  charg 
ing  from  east  and  west,  toward  the  Grand  Plaza,  their  cannon  balls  en 
counter  each  other,  in  the  ranks  of  the  foe;  crushing  men  and  horses, 
firm  masonry  and  battlemented  walls  before  them,  they  fight  on, 
toward  the  centre,  where  gleams  the  Cathedral  cross  over  masses  of 
cloud  ! 

This  was  the  scene,  which  the  young  American,  sick  of  the  battle,  and 
thinking  of  his  dear  Pennsylvanian  home,  beheld,  but  it  was  not  all !  No 
— no  ! 

Between  the  rolling  clouds,  the  sky  smiled  so  calmly  down  upon  him ; 
beneath  in  the  bloody  Plaza,  the  dead  looked  so  ghastly  up  in  his  face  ! 
Not  twenty  yards  from  the  place  where  he  stood,  a  dead  woman  lay,  her 
mangled  breasts,  clotted  with  blood,  while  her  frozen  features,  knit  so 
darkly  in  the  brow,  and  distorted  along  the  lips,  told  how  fierce  the  strug 
gle  in  which  she  died. 

0,  it  would  have  made  your  blood  dance,  to  stand  there,  and  see  how, 
wave  on  wave,  the  Americans  rolled  their  flood  of  bayonets  toward  the 
Plaza,  how  flash  on  flash,  their  cannon  lighted  up  the  battle,  whirling 
around  the  cathedral,  how  yell  on  yell,  the  stern  hunters  of  the  west,  with 
clenched  bowie  knives,  in»their  brawny  arms,  came  rushing  on,  to  the  last 
act  of  the  three  day's  drama  of  blood  ! 

At  last,  as  if  the  day  light  was  sick  of  the  scene,  the  night  fell — a  star 
less,  moonless  night — and  in  the  darkness,  the  fight  went  horribly  forward. 

Then,  through  the  pall  that  hung  above  the  Cathedral,  a  mass  of  fire, 
came  blazing  on,  like  the  bloody  moon  in  the  Book  of  Revelations,  blazing 
on,  with  its  fiery  mane,  flung  far  along  the  sky. 

It  comes  from  the  mortar  of  Worth,  and  hisses  down,  among  the  Mex 
icans,  in  front  of  the  Cathedral.  Old  Zachary,  gazing  from  the  east,  sees 
that  bomb,  as  it  flashes  on  its  meteor  way,  and  knows  that  the  end  of  the 
battle  is  near. 

Weary  of  the  darkness  and  the  blood,  the  young  American  tottered, 


116  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

from  the  battlement  and  down  the  stairway,  into  the  chamber,  where  he 
had  left  the  sisters  and  their  dying  father. 

A  darkness,  so  dense,  that  it  seemed  to  press  upon  the  eyeballs,  lay  upon 
the  place. 

The  American  soldier,  stood  among  the  purple  curtains,  listening  in  awe 
for  the  faintest  sound. 

It  was  still — terribly  still.  To  the  excited  fancy  of  the  battle-worn 
Volunteer,  it  seemed  a  death  vault,  gloomy  with  the  darkness  of  ages. 
The  very  atmosphere  seemed  thick  with  Death. 

He  advanced — a  single  step — and  then,  even  as  he  could  distinctly  hear 
the  beatings  of  his  heart — he  spread  forth  his  arms,  sank  on  his  knees, 
and  felt  his  way,  through  that  darkened  chamber. 

His  extended  hands  touched  the  cold  face  of  the  dead.  There  was 
something  so  loathsome,  in  that  clammy  pressure,  which  left  his  fingers, 
wet  with  clotted  blood,  that  he  started  back,  and  remained  for  a  moment, 
motionless  as  the  dead,  as  if  rooted  to  the  stone,  on  which  he  knelt. 

Then,  dashing  forward  with  trembling  hands,1  he  felt  the  cold  face 
again,  and  another,  and  yet  one  more  clammy  brow.  He  was  alone  in 
that  room,  with  the  dead.  Three  corses  lay  on  the  stone  floor,  beside  the 
kneeling  man. 

This  was  the  work  of  War !  War  on  the  battle  field,  where  the  yell 
of  the  dying,  rings  its  defiance  to  the  charging  legions,  wears  on  its  blood 
iest  plume,  some  gleam  of  chivalry,  but  War  in  the  Home,  scattering  its 
corses,  beside  the  holiest  altars  of  life,  and  mingling  the  household  gods, 
with  bleeding  hearts  and  shattered  skulls — this,  indeed,  is  a  fearful  thing. 

As  the  American,  sank  back,  shuddering  and  cold — for  he,  too  had  a 
father,  he  too,  had  sisters — a  glare  like  lightning,  illumined  the  chamber, 
laying  bare,  every  nook  and  crevice,  and  tinting  every  object,  with  its 
red  and  murderous  light.  In  a  moment  it  died  away,  but  that  moment  of 
sudden  light,  revealed  this  battle  picture,  to  the  eyes  of  the  American 
soldier : 

The  Father,  dead,  upon  the  prostrate  door,  his  distorted  features,  scowl 
ing  curses,  even  as  he  lay,  with  his  hands,  clenched  over  his  mangled  breast. 
By  his  side,  two  forms,  their  arms  about  each  other's  necks,  their  lips 
close  together,  their  young  faces,  even  in  that  battle  light,  wearing  a  smile, 
serene,  as  a  cloudless  heaven.  It  was  the  Brother  and  his  Sister,  sleep 
ing  their  last  sleep.  One  bullet,  had  pierced  their  skulls  through  the  tem 
ple — she,  with  her  glassy  blue  eyes  and  brown  hair,  lay  with  her  cheek 
to  his,  as  the  brother's  lip,  darkened  by  a  slight  mustache,  was  curved  in 
a  joyous  smile. 

So,  by  their  dead  father,  the  dead  children  lay,  crushed  into  eternal 
silence,  even  as  they  had  embraced  each  other,  over  his  lifeless  body. 

It  was  evident  that  the  young  Mexican,  came  home  from  the  fight,  with 
out  a  wound,  and  died  in  the  act  of  consoling  his  fatherless  sisters. 


MONTEREY.  117 

But  Xiraena — where  is  she  ? 

Look,  beside  the  bodies  of  the  dead,  and  tremble,  as  you  behold  that 
kneeling  woman,  gazing  fixedly,  upon  the  three  corses,  her  eyes  dilating, 
until  the  white  circle,  is  seen  distinctly,  around  each  burning  pupil,  while 
her  death-like  face  and  uncovered  bosom,  are  darkly  relieved  by  the  vol 
ume  of  her  luxuriant  hair. 

Was  she  dead  ? 

A  convulsive  quivering  of  the  lip,  alone  bore  witness,  to  the  miserable 
life,  that  still  dwelt,  in  her  maddened  brain,  a  slight — almost  imperceptable 
heaving  of  her  white  bosom — told  that  her  torn  heart,  still  throbbed  on. 

For  a  moment  the  American  saw  this  picture — only  one  of  the  thou 
sand  horrible  sights,  which  the  light  of  battle,  revealed  in  the  Homes  of 
Monterey — and  the  darkness,  fell  like  a  pall,  upon  the  living  and  the  dead. 

It  was  on  the  Twenty -Fourth  of  September,  when  the  battle  clouds  had 
rolled  away,  and  the  setting  sun,  shone  over  the  wreck  of  the  devastated 
city,  thai  AMPUDIA,  surrendered  into  the  hands  of  the  old  man  in  the 
brown  coat,  his  sword,  and  saw  the  Banner  of  the  Stars,  float  into  heaven, 
from  every  dome  and  peak  of  the  city. 

In  a  town,  that  resembled  one  immense  castle,  hemmed  in  by  fortified 
mountains,  and  defended  by  forty-two  pieces  of  cannon,  with  at  least  nine 
thousand,  brave  men,  under  his  command,  he  had  been  conquered  by  this 
plain  warrior,  on  the  old  grey  horse,  who  had  only  six  thousand  men, 
one  mortar,  two  howitzers  and  four  light  field  batteries. 
History  does  not  tell  of  many  deeds  like  that! 

Well  might  the  old  man  gaze  proudly  round  him,  as  he  felt  the  sword 
of  AMPUDIA  in  his  grasp  !  For  encircled  by  his  own  gallant  officers — 
Worth  of  the  Waving  Plume  was  foremost  there — he  saw  the  mountains, 
with  their  white  tops,  glittering  in  the  setting  sun.  He  saw  the  Cathe 
dral  Cross,  shining  like  a  point  of  flame,  as  the  Banner  of  the  Stars,  floated 
around  its  dome.  The  orange  groves,  whose  white  blossoms,  could  not 
conceal  the  dead,  the  River  of  San  Juan,  red  with  blood,  the  gloomy 
Bishop's  Palace,  frowning  under  the  victorious  flag,  the  city,  littered  with 
corses, — he  saw  it  all,  that  scene,  where  he  had  fought  and  won  ! 

Gaze  upon  the  old  man,  as  he  stands  triumphant,  among  the  wrecks  of 
Monterey,  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun,  upon  his  bronzed  face,  the  sword 
of  Ampudia  in  his  hand.  His  Army — his  People,  not  his  Slaves — are 
there,  with  their  tried  bayonets,  shining  on  every  side.  There  are  taller 
warriors,  who  wear  gayer  uniforms,  and  go  to  the  fight,  in  more  elegant 
costume,  but  this  familiar  man,  in  that  unadorned  attire,  wears  his  battle 
jewels,  in  the  hearts  of  six  thousand  men. 

And  as  he  stands  before  us,  the  object  of  ten  thousand  eyes,  yonder, 
far  away,  in  the  City  of  Washington,  the  pismires  of  Faction,  are  already 
busy  with  the  Mound  of  his  Fame.  That  Mound,  built  of  the  trophies 


118  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

of  Palo  Alto,  Resaca  De  La  Palma,  Monterey,  and  cemented  with  the 
blood  of  at  least  one  thousand  heroes. 

Toil  on,  heroic  Insects  of  the  Cabinet  and  Council  !  For  work  like 
this,  you  were  born  ;  it  is  your  destiny,  to  gnaw  holes  in  the  drapery 
of  greatness,  and  burrow  hiding  places,  for  your  mighty  insignificance, 
beneath  the  Monument  of  Genius.  Toil  on !  In  the  olden  times,  Pis 
mires,  as  brave  as  you, — although  not  born  in  the  miasmatic  air  of  cau 
cus  and  convention — swarmed  over  the  drapery  of  a  man,  called  Wash 
ington,  and  went  terribly  to  work,  beneath  the  granite  mountain  of  his 
fame. 

Where  are  they  now  ?     Where  will  you  be,  ten  years  hence  ? 

Toil  on,  heroic  Insects,  of  the  Cabinet  and  Council !  But  be  very 
careful  how  you  annoy  heroes  like  Washington  or  Taylor — a  single  flutter 
of  their  drapery  will  scatter  you ;  a  solitary  pebble,  falling  from  the  Monu- 
.  ment  of  their  fame,  crush  you,  into  dust. 

These  Politicians,  who  scheme  in  dark  holes,  while  brave,  men,  do 
heroic  deeds,  in  the  face  of  day,  are  interesting  personages. 

Behold  them,  in  the  Continental  Congress,  lay  their  plans  and  weave 
their  plots,  against  one  WASHINGTON,  now  battling  hunger,  cold  and  pesti 
lence  among  the  hills  of  Valley  Forge  !  Yet  this  same  WASHINGTON, 
with  the  ant-hills  of  party  reared  all  about  him,  to  block  his  way  and  pre 
cipitate  him  into  the  dust,  comes  forth  serenely  from  Valley  Forge,  and 
fights  the  BATTLE  OF  MONMOUTH. 

Behold  them,  after  the  Battle  of  Monterey,  sever  old  ZACHARY  TAYLOR 
from  his  tried  veterans,  leave  himSat  the  City  of  his  Conquest,  with  only 
six  hundred  men,  which  at  last  are  swelled  by  new  recruits,  into  four 
thousand.  Immoftal  Insects  !  What  matter  if  the  old  man  and  his  four 
thousand  are  massacred  ? 

The  whole  Union  palpitates  with  quivering  anxiety  for  the  old  man  and 
his  soldiers.  Superseded  in  his  command,  stripped  of  his  veterans,  he  is 
left  among  the  mountains,  with  only  four  thousand,  while  Santa  Anna 
seeks  for  him,  with  twenty  thousand  men,  eager  for  the  fight,  and  confi 
dent  of  victory. 

Who  cares  for  old  Taylor  ?  Let  him  retreat ;  he  has  won  glory  enough  ; 
we  Insects  of  Politics  are  afraid  of  his  fame.  Let  him  retreat  or  die. 

And,  even  as  the  Insects  talk  thus,  there  came  a  Rumor  that  the  old 
man  has  discovered  a  path  through  the  very  dangers  which  threaten  him, 
a  Beautiful  Prospect  through  the  very  clouds  which  frown  upon  his  head, 
or  to  speak  it  in  Spanish,  a — BUENA  VISTA. 

Toil  on  heroic  Pismires  of  the  cabinet  and  council ! 

Still  we  stand  in  the  shadows  of  the  Walnut  Grove,  gazing  by  the  light 
of  the  moon,  on  slumbering  Monterey.  To  see  it  sleep  so  calmly,  in  the 
embrace  of  its  warrior  mountains,  who  would  dream  that  it  had  ever  been 


MONTEREY.  119 

the  scene  of  a  three  day's  battle  ?  Gloomily  above  the  town,  the  Bishop's 
Palace  towers,  but  its  guns  are  voiceless  now.  Beautifully  throngh  the 
night,  the  silvery  San  Juan  gleams,  but  its  waves  no  longer  blush  with 
blood.  The  orange  groves  are  there,  with  their  golden  fruit  mantled  in 
snowy  blossoms  ;  there,  the  cornfields  waving  their  long  emerald  leaves 
and  tossing  their  silver  tassels  on  the  breeze,  there  the  homes  of  stone, 
with  battlemented  roofs,  framed  in  gardens  of  flowers— Beautiful  Monterey ! 
From  the  Cathedral  tower,  the  Cross  glitters  through  the  night,  emblem 
of  that  Faith — though  clouded  by  priests  and  creeds — which  says  forever, 
"  All  men  are  alike  the  children  of  God."  Over  the  Bishop's  Palace 
waves  the  Banner  of  the  Stars,  symbol  of  that  Democratic  truth,  which 
never  for  a  moment  ceases  to  speak,  "  This  Continent  is  the  Homestead 
of  free  and  honest  men.  Kings  have  no  business  here.  Hasten  to  possess 
it,  Children  of  Washington  !" 

— While  the  moon  rises  over  Monterey,  let  me  take  you  to  the  fireside 
of  yonder  distant  Home,  in  the  land  of  Penn,  among  the  mountains. 

There  is  snow  upon  the  ground,  not  only  on  the  summit  of  the  hill, 
but  in  the  deep  gorges,  and  chasm-like  ravines.  Over  the  mantle  of  snow, 
a  ray  of  light  quivers  like  a  flaming  arrow.  It  comes  from  yonder  win 
dow  ;  you  see  it,  with  its  deep  frame  sunken  in  the  thick  walls  of  the  old 
farm-house.  With  leafless  trees  around  it,  that  pile  of  dark  stone,  with 
steep  roof  and  many  chimneys,  breaks  on  your  eye.  The  barn  is  near, 
one  of  those  massive  structures,  which  speak  of  glorious  harvests,  and 
shame  the  Slave  House  of  the  Factory  into  nothingness. 

By  the  light  of  the  fireside,  which  sends  its  flaming  arrow  through  the 
window,  into  the  dark  night — like  a  ray  from  heaven,  blessing  a  dark 
world — behold  this  picture  of  Christinas  Night. 

A  spacious  room,  its  floor  and  ceiling  white  as  snow,  and  a  wide  hearth, 
smoking  and  blazing  with  huge  hickory  logs.  Above  the  hearth,  a  Rifle 
hangs,  which  blazed  in  the  Revolution  at  Germantown.  Altogether,  this 
hall  of  the  old  farm-house,  with  its  ancient  furniture,  its  heavy  rafters,  and 
joyous  hearth,  appeals  to  your  heart :  it  is  such  a  picture  of  Home. 

Near  the  fire,  on  one  of  those  oaken  arm-chairs,  sits  an  old  man,  with  a 
rosy-cheeked  damsel  on  either  side.  They  clasp  his  hands  and  smooth 
the  white  hairs  aside  from  his  wrinkled  brow, — their  fresh  young  faces 
contrasting  with  his  aged  visage — but  the  old  man,  with  his  grey  eyes 
fixed  on  the  fire  coals,  bends  his  head  and  does  not  breathe  a  word. 

It  is  the  Christmas  Night,  and  the  Christmas  Fire  lights  his  face,  but 
there  is  one  absent  from  its  glow.  He  is  thinking  of  the  absent  one, 
picturing  among  the  fire-coals,  the  image  of  his  manly  form,  and  repeating 
to  himself,  the  last  words  which  he  said,  ere  he  left  his  home : 

"  Father,  I  will  come  back  covered  with  glory.  I  will  bring  you  a 
trophy  from  the  fields  of  Mexico  ?" 


THE  BATTLES   OF  TAYLOR. 

Now,  it  may  be,  he  lies  writhing  with  battle  wounds  or  dying  in  the 
slow  agonies  of  the  tropical  fever. 

The  daughters  read  the  sorrow  written  in  the  aged  lineaments  of  their 
father,  and  cast  their  tearful  eyes  upon  the  Christmas  Fire.  Mary,  with 
the  soft  brown  hair,  and  bosom  that  swells  beneath  its  'kerchief  covering, 
dreams  a  half-waking  dream  of  that  golden  and  bloody  land  called  Mexico, 
and  sees  her  brother  toiling  through  the  wastes  of  chaparral.  Anna,  with 
hair  golden  as  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun,  and  a  pale  cheek,  tinted  with 
a  solitary  rose-bud,  also  dreams,  but  in  her  vision  beholds  her  brother's 
brow,  bathed  with  the  red  flush  of  victory. 

And  so  they  dream  on,  the  father  and  his  two  mountain  flowers,  while 
the  dismal  wind,  howling  through  the  deep  ravines,  only  serves  to  render 
more  dear,  more  holy,  the  light,  the  blessing  of  that  Christmas  Fire. 

At  last  a  step  is  heard  ;  through  the  opened  door,  a  gust  of  wind  and 
sleet  rushes  toward  the  fire.  With  one  bound,  the  old  man  and  his 
daughters  start  to  their  feet. 

In  the  doorway,  they  behold  a  tall,  slender  form  attired  in  a  plain  blue 
overcoat ;  they  see  that  pale  face,  lighted  by  the  eyes  that  flash  with  vivid 
light,  they  know  those  curls  of  chesnut  brown,  clustering  beneath  the 
military  cap,  around  the  white  forehead. 

"  My  Son  !"  and  the  old  man  spreads  forth  his  arms. 

"  Brother  !" — the  Sisters  are  clinging  round  his  neck. 

Wasted  by  the  deadly  fever,  the  young  Soldier  bore  in  his  pale  cheek 
and  scarred  brow,  the  stern  testimonials  of  Monterey.  He  stood  in  the 
centre  of  the  group,  his  heart  too  full  for  words,  gazing  now  upon  his 
white-haired  father,  now  into  the  faces  of  those  blooming  sisters.  It  was 
not  very  singular,  but  still  the  door  remained  open,  and  the  wind  and  sleet 
still  rushed  upon  the  Christmas  Fire. 

"  You've  come  back,  Harry," — the  Father  surveyed  his  son  with  a  look 
of  pride — "  You've  seen  hard  fightin'  I  don't  doubt  !  A  terrible  scrimmage, 
that  of  Monterey  !  Come  sit  by  the  fire  ;  the  girls  will  get  you  some 
thing  to  eat.  An'  as  you  eat,  tell  us  all  about  it — what  do  you  think  of 
the  old  man,  Zachary  Taylor  ?" 

At  that  name  the  young  soldier  uncovered  his  head;  the  tears' started 
to  his  eyes. 

"  He  is  the  Father,  the  Brother  of  his  soldiers,  as  much  as  their  Gene 
ral  !"  he  said,  with  deep  emotion. — So  I  have  seen,  time  and  again,  the 
heads  of  returned  soldiers  uncover  at  the  name  of  Taylor,  while  the  tears 
in  their  eyes,  the  tremor  in  their  voices,  told  how  deeply  in  their  heart 
the  memory  of  the  old  man's  kindness  had  taken  root  and  flourished. 

"But  come,"  said  the  Father — "The  night  is  bitter  cold;  close  the 
door  and  sit  near  the  fire — " 

The  Soldier  did  not  move  toward  the  fire,  but  stayed  his  father's  hands 
as  they  were  extended  to  close  the  door. 


MONTEREY.  121 

"  When  I  left  for  Mexico,  I  told  you  I  would  bring  back  with  me  a 
Trophy  of  the  War.  That  Trophy  is  here  !" 

Flinging  the  door  yet  wider  open,  he  led  the  Trophy  forward  to  the 
light.  Behold  it !  A  young,  a  beautiful  girl,  whose  voluptuous  outline 
of  form,  is  not  altogether  hidden  in  her  cumbrous  dress  of  furs,  whose 
clear  olive  cheek,  jet  black  hair  and  dazzling  eyes,  glow  in  the  light,  as 
they  are  framed  in  the  close-fitting  hood. 

The  snow  was  upon  her  dress,  and  melted  in  pearl  drops  in  her  hair. 
She  stood  gazing  around  the  place  with  a  half-frightened  glance  ;  then 
raising  her  large  eyes  to  her  Husband's  face,  she  came  tremulously  for 
ward  and  knelt  at  the  old  man's  feet  and  kissed  his  hand.  With  one  im 
pulse,  the  Sisters  flung  themselves  beside  her,  and  kissed  the  snow  drops 
from  her  raven  hair. 

"  It's  a  long  story,  father — "  gasped  the  Soldier,  in  a  voice  choked  by 
emotion — "But  I  saw  her  father,  her  sister,  her  brother — together — dead 
upon  the  floor  of  their  home,  at  Monterey.  She  was  without  a  friend — 
and  I  had  killed " 

He  abruptly  paused,  and  turned  his  face  away.  As  if  his  soul  was  in 
his  words,  he  gasped  again — 

"  I  can't  tell  it  now  father  !  But  there  she  is,  a  true  woman,  who  has 
nursed  me  in  sickness,  and  followed  me  from  her  land  of  orange  blossoms 
and  flowers,  into  this  land  of  winter  and  snow.  She  is  my  wife  !  Your 
child,  father  !  Your  sister,  my  sisters  !  Be  very  kind  to  her,  for  she  ha* 
suffered  much,  and  deserves  all  the  love  in  your  hearts  !  True,  she 
does  n't  understand  English,  but — " 

There  was  a  language  which  she  understood  !  It  spoke  from  her  large 
beautiful  eyes,  it  heaved  with  the  pulsations  of  her  young  bosom,  it 
wreathed  in  her  red,  warm  lips,  and  shone  in  every  blush  of  her  glowing 
countenance. 

As  though  she  had  been  a  gift,  sent  to  them  from  Paradise,  the  old  man 
and  his  daughters  took  that  warm  southern  flower  to  their  hearts,  and  from 
that  moment  she  grew  there  ! 

Beautiful  Ximena !  Shaking  the  glittering  snow  drops  from  her  hair,  as 
it  fell  in  dark  masses  from  her  raised  hood,  she  advanced  toward  the 
Christmas  Fire,  and  its  warm  glow  bathed  her  cheeks  as  with  a  blessing. 
The  old  man  looked  smilingly  into  her  face.  On  her  right  stood  Mary, 
taking  her  silently  by  the  hand,  on  the  left  her  other  sister,  Anna,  thread 
ing  her  jet-black  hair  with  her  fingers. 

Somewhat  in  the  rear,  stood  the  pale  Soldier,  his  arms  folded  on  his 
breast,  his  head  downcast,  his  eyes  flashing  with  deep  emotion  as  they 
rested  on  his  wife.— That  beautiful  Trophy,  from  the  battle-rent  walls 
of  Monterey. 

15 


THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 


VII.— BUENA  VISTA. 

A  MOTHER,  with  her  mild  blue  eyes  shining  with  a  joy  too  deep  for 
words,  was  gazing  upon  the  face  of  her  new-born  child.  Through  the 
curtained  windows  of  her  Virginian  home,  shone  the  clear  calm  light  of 
the  setting  sun.  A  mass  of  golden  beams  fell  like  a  glory  upon  her  down 
cast  head,  and  baptized  with  warm  radiance,  the  face  of  her  slumbering 
babe,  In  that  darkened  room,  crowded  with  antique  furniture,  the  bed- 
curtains  crimsoned  by  the  glow  of  the  winter  fire,  you  might  distinguish 
through  the  twilight  gloom  which  filled  the  place,  those  two  faces,  one 
eloquent  with  a  Mother's  love,  the  other  calm  as  a  cloudless  sunset,  and 
fresh  from  the  hands  of  God. 

The  name  of  that  new-born  babe,  slumbering  so  like  a  dreaming  Angel, 
beneath  its  Mother's  gaze,  was  GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

The  winter  day,  on  which  the  Mother  pressed  her  new-born  child  to 
her  bosom,  was  the  TWENTY-SECOND  or  FEBRUARY,  1732. 

Time  passed  on,  and  that  child's  name  became  a  holy  word  in  the 
hearts  of  millions  :  the  day  of  his  birth  a  holy  day,  celebrated  with  solemn 
prayers,  with  glad  hosannahs,  in  all  the  homes  of  a  redeemed  People. 

But  there  came  a  day,  when  it  was  celebrated  with  offerings  of  blood. 
When  the  cannon,  crushing  hundreds  with  its  thunderbolt,  sung  the  an 
them  to  its  praise,  and  the  white  lips  of  dying  men — dying  afar  from 
country  and  home,  in  the  depths  of  bloody  ravines — gasped  with  the  last 
impulse  of  life,  these  holy  words — The  twenty-second  of  February — 
Washington. 

It  was  on  the  Twenty-Second  of  February,  1847,  just  one  hundred  and 
fifteen  years  from  the  day  when  the  Mother  gazed  upon  her  new-born 
child,  that  the  same  sun  which  had  baptized  their  faces  with  tender  light, 
shone  over  a  far  different  scene. 

It  was  sunset  among  the  mountains  of  Mexico. 

Wild  and  rugged  mountains  were  those,  which  rose  against  the  clear 
winter  sky,  terrible  ravines  yawned  in  the  light,  dreary  and  inhospitable 
wastes  wearied  the  eye,  with  their  desert  loneliness.  It  looked — that 
desolate  view — like  the  Chaos  of  a  former  world. 

Through  these  colossal  steeps,  hideous  with  piles  of  rock,  tossed  into 
the  sky  in  every  fantastic  variety  of  form,  wound  a  narrow  defile. 

It  was  the  road  from  fiuena  Vista — a  hacienda,  or  mansion  yonder  on 
those  northern  hills, — to  Agua  Nueva,  some  miles  to  the  South. 

To  the  left  of  this  defile,  the  valley  of  cliffs  is  broken  by  ridges,  stretch 
ing  away,  peak  on  peak,  until  they  walled  in  by  the  colossal  mountain,  in 
the  east.  On  the  right  of  the  defile,  deep  gullies  yawn  in  the  light,  their 


BUENA  VISTA.  123 

almost  perpendicular  sides  rough  with  rocks,  glowing  redly  in  the  light 
of  the  winter  sun. 

And  on  those  ridges,  stretching  away  toward  the  eastern  mountain — 
each  ridge  separated  from  the  other,  by  a  hideous  ravine — and  above  those 
gullies,  breaking  the  valley,  into  every  chaotic  shape,  to  ihe  right  of  the 
defile,  arrayed  in  battle  order,  you  behold  an  army  of  four  thousand 
men. 

Their  arms  glitter  in  the  light,  with  the  dark  mountain  waste  all  around 
them.  And  between  their  regiments  and  companies,  the  ravines  darken  ; 
among  their  ranks,  huge  granite  rocks  arise ;  they  are  extended,  at  inter 
vals  to  the  right  and  to  the  left  of  the  defile,  masses  of  men,  horses,  can- 
iion  and  steel,  broken  by  columns  of  shadow. 

In  their  midst — you  see  him  yonder,  on  the  ridge  that  towers  directly 
to  the  left  of  the  defile — sits  an  old  man  on  his  grey  steed,  his  right  leg 
carelessly  crossed  over  the  pommel  of  his  saddle,  while  his  plain  brown 
coat,  and  unpretending  military  cap,  are  distinctly  revealed  in  the  light  of 
the  setting  sun. 

His  bronzed  face,  warms  with  a  deep  glow,  as  his  grey  eyes  traverse 
that  wilderness  of  Mountains  to  the  south. 

The  foe  is  there  ;  Waterloo  never  beheld,  gathered  in  one  view,  a  more 
beautiful  or  terrible  array. 

As  far  as  eye  can  see,  the  wilderness  is  one  dense  mass  of  men  and 
horses,  with  cannon  glooming  in  the  intervals  of  their  firm  ranks,  and 
steel  blazing  over  their  heads.  \ 

The  setting  sun  lights  up  that  quivering  mass  of  steel,  with  a  red  glow. 
You  see  it  blazing  everywhere.  Yonder,  up  the  mountain  side,  it  shines, 
circle  of  steel,  piled  on  glittering  circle,  until  that  mass  of  rugged  rock, 
flames  like  an  immense  altar,  lighted  for  some  Demon  Festival.  From 
the  depths  of  the  ravine,  those  glittering  points,  burst  into  the  sunset,  and 
far  down  the  valley  of  ridges  and  gullies,  rank  on  rank,  column  on 
column,  regiment  on  regiment,  that  dense  and  formidable  array  seems  to 
grow  larger,  blacker,  brighter,  as  it  melts  into  twilight  distance.  Twenty 
thousand  men  are  there,  upon  the  mountains,  and  in  the  ravines,  arrayed 
in  battle  order. 

It  looks  like  the  army  of  a  Persian  despot,  so  gaily  flutters  its  innu 
merable  red  flags,  from  their  flag-staffs  of  sharpened  steel,  so  far,  ao  wide 
it  grows  into  space,  so  triumphantly  it  looks  down,  upon  the  little  army, 
arrayed  upon  these  northern  ridges. 

Yonder,  on  that  solitary  ridge,  towering  some  hundred  yards  to  the  left 
of  the  defile — one  long  wave  of  bayonets  tossing  tremulously  beneath 
him — behold  the  soul  of  this  immense  mass.  In  the  centre  of  a  circle, 
formed  by  the  gorgeous  costumes  of  his  officers,  behold,  mounted  on  a 
dark  charger,  a  man,  whose  breast,  blazing  with  stars  and  orders,  cannot 
divert  your  eye,  from  the  melancholy  grandeur  of  his  face.  His  head  is 


124  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

uncovered.  His  strongly  defined  profile,  is  marked  upon  the  sunset  sky. 
There  is  intellect  in  every  line  of  his  bold  forehead ;  his  mouth,  wears 
an  expression  of  almost  painful  melancholy,  his  dark  eye,  shines  with 
deep  and  steady  light. 

As  his  olive  cheek,  glows  in  the  sunset,  while  his  eye  roves  over  the 
legions  of  his  twenty  thousand  men,  can  you  call  to  mind  his  past  life  ? 
By  turns,  President,  Dictator,  Exile,  for  twenty  years  and  more,  the  great 
impulse,  of  his  country's  destiny  ;  now  lording  in  a  royal  state,  in  his 
Palace,  reared  upon  the  very  spot,  where  stood,  Montezuma's  luxurious 
home  ;  now  looking  with  tiger-like  ferocity  upon  the  corses  of  slaugh 
tered  Alamo  ;  again  a  miserable  outcast,  resorting  to  opium,  for  oblivion 
of  his  defeat,  by  a  few  hundred  Texan  hunters — behold  the  Man  of 
Mexico,  covered  as  he  is  with  stars,  and  bearing  the  marks  of  battle,  in 
his  maimed  limb — Antonio  Lopez  SANTA  ANNA. 

But  a  few  months  ago,  sitting  in  the  Havanna  theatre,  he  smiled  care 
lessly  at  the  dance  and  song,  and  with  his  young  wife  by  his  side,  did  not 
seem  to  think,  that  among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  there  was  a  land, 
called  MEXICO. 

Now — upon  these  wintry  mountains,  some  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea — with  twenty  thousand  men,  one  irresistable  mass  of  horse  and  foot, 
he  proudly  surveys  plain  Zachary  Taylor,  and  his  four  thousand  volun 
teers. 

What  does  it  mean,  this  terrible,  this  sublime  spectacle  ? 

The  same  power  which  brought  Santa  Anna  from  his  place  of  exile  in 
Havanna,  stripped  Zachary  Taylor  of  his  veterans  after  the  three  day's 
fight  of  Monterey,  and  left  him,  to  retreat  or  die. 

Let  us  behold  the  array  of  the  great  old  man. 

Yonder,  above  the  defile,  frowns  Captain  Washington's  battery. — 
WASHINGTON  ?  Yes,  it  is  a  glorious  omen  !  On  the  22nd  of  February, 
the  Narrte  and  the  Blood  of  the  Continental  General,  are  here  ! — The 
crests  of  the  ridges  on  the  left  and  to  the  rear,  are  occupied  by  one  com 
pany  and  three  regiments.  There  you  may  see  the  First  and  Second 
Regiments  of  Illinois,  with  their  commanders,  Harden  and  Bissel ;  a  com 
pany  of  Texans  under  Captain  Connor  ;  the  Second  Regiment  of  Ken 
tucky,  headed  by  M'Kee.  All  volunteers,  commanded  by  volunteers. 
All  citizen  soldiers,  summoned  from  their  fire-sides,  by  the  war-cry  of 
Zachary  Taylor.  And  amid  that  crowd  of  gallant  men  you  distinguish  one 
manly  form,  and  chivalric  face,  shown  distinctly  in  the  level  sunlight. 
The  blood  of  a  great  man  throbs  in  that  soldier's  veins  ;  his  name  is 
Henry  Clay. 

On  the  extreme  left,  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  mountain,  behold  the 
mounted  men  of  Arkansas,  with  their  leader,  Colonel  Yell,  and  the  caval- 


BUENA  VISTA.  125 

ry  of  Kentucky,  with  their  commander  Humphrey  Marshall.     Two  regi 
ments  of  men,  horses  and  scimitars. 

The  reserve,  you  see  it  yonder,  on  the  hills  to  the  rear,  a  gallant  band, 
formed  of  the  Indiana  Brigade,  under  Brigadier  Lane,  its  two  regiments 
commanded  by  Colonels  Bowles  and  Lane — the  Mississippi  Riflemen, 
with  their  leader  Colonel  Davis,  all  heroes  of  Monterey — May  of  Resaca 
De  La  Palma,  with  his  dragoons,  side  by  side,  and  another  squadron 
under  Captain  Steen— the  cannon  of  Bragg  and  Sherman  completes  the 
array. 

These  men,  with  but  few  exceptions  are  untried  soldiers.  Yesterday 
Zachary  Taylor,  retreated  from  Agua  Nueva,  (some  few  miles  to  the 
south,)  and  on  these  hills,  he  has  determined  to  meet  the  twenty  thousand 
men,  and  thirty  two  pieces  of  cannon,  in  battle. 

At  eleven  o'clock  there  came  from  Santa  Anna,  a  messenger  of  peace, 
bearing  a  white  flag.  He  found  the  old  General  quietly  seated  on  his 
grey  steed,  and  placed  in  his  hand  the  letter  of  Santa  Anna.  The  Mexican 
General  announced  that  he  was  surrounded  by  twenty  thousand  men, 
and  summoned  him  to  surrender. 

The  reply  of  Zachary  Taylor,  has  already  become  battle  scripture  in 
the  pages  of  history.  Its  succinctness  and  brevity,  are  eminently  re 
freshing  : 

Head  Quarters,  Army  of  Occupation. 
Near  Buena  Vista,  Feb.  22,  1847. 

SIR — In  reply  to  your  note  of  this  date,  summoning  me  to  surrender 
my  forces  at  discretion,  I  beg  leave  to  say,  that  I  decline  acceding  to  your 
request. 

With  high  respect,  I  am  Sir, 

Your  obedient  Servant, 
Z.  TAYLOR. 

The  day  is  now  wearing  toward  its  close,  and  a  pillar  of  white  smoke 
suddenly  towers  upward,  along  yonder  mountain.  It  is  the  Shroud  of 
Buena  Vista,  enfolding  the  first  dead  men  of  the  battle.  Beneath  that 
cloud,  the  men  of  Kentucky,  Indiana  and  Arkansaw,  are  engaged  :  you 
see  their  arms  glitter  on  the  mountain  side;  they  hurl  the  Mexican  light 
troops  before  them,  and  the  battery  of  WASHINGTON'  whirling  from  the 
centre  to  the  left,  pours  its  thunder,  upon  the  flying  foe. 

The  battle  has  begun,  but  night  closes  in,  and  the  voice  of  the  fight,  is 
stilled  until  the  rising  of  the  sun. 

The  Americans  slumber  upon  the  field,  without  fires — although  the  air 
is  bitter  cold, and  slumber  upon  their  arms.  Through  the  midnight  shadow 
the  mountains  rise,  girdling  the  slumbering  heroes  with  their  wall  of  rock, 
mantling  the  glitter  of  their  arms,  with  immense  masses  of  shadow. 


126  THE    BATTLES   OF  TAYLOR. 

Zachary  Taylor,  is  summoned  to  the  north,  from  Buena  Vista  to  Sal- 
tillo.  General  Minon,  with  a  formidable  mass  of  cavalry,  hangs  round 
that  town,  like  a  cloud,  ready  to  burst  upon  it,  with  a  hurricane  of  flame 
and  steel.  The  veteran  WOOL  remains  at  Buena  Vista,  and  the  Missis 
sippi  regiment,  with  the  second  squadron  of  dragoons,  guard  old  Taylor 
on  his  way.  By  his  side,  he  beholds  Colonel  Davis,  and  Lieutenant  Col 
onel  May,  brilliant  with  the  glory  of  Monterey  and  Resaca  De  La  Palma. 

When  Zachary  Taylor,  came  to  the  field  of  Buena  Vista,  on  the  morn 
ing  of  the  twenty-third  ;  the  scene,  that  awaited  him,  was  stirring  and  sub 
lime. 

The  day  had  dawned  in  cloudless  beauty,  the  mountain  tops,  breaking 
without  a  frown,  into  the  serene  sky.  But  now,  Buena  Vista,  lay  wrapt 
in  one  dense  mass  of  smoke,  that  hung  from  mountain  to  mountain,  over 
a  space  of  three  miles.  The  roofs  of  the  Hacienda,  from  which  the  field 
takes  its  name,  were  hidden  in  cloud  and  flame.  Under  the  shadow  of 
that  pall,  Santa  Anna  hurled  the  terror  of  his  force,  upon  the  American 
volunteers,  and  bathed  the  mountain  sides,  in  fire. 

From  rank  to  rank,  hurried  the  heroic  Wool,  his  breast  exposed  to  the 
enemy's  deadliest  fire,  his  horse,  seen  glancing  through  the  clouds  of  bat 
tle.  His  tall  athletic  form,  rose  proudly  in  every  part  of  the  field,  as  with 
his  hawk  eye,  gleaming  with  battle  light,  he  hurried  his  men  to  the  charge. 

When  riding  from  Sallillo,  old  Taylor  came  to  Buena  Vista,  and  reined 
his  grey,  on  the  ridge,  near  the  defile,  this  was  the  sight  which  he  saw : 

Frowning  upon  the  left  flank,  the  Mexicans  appeared  in  overwhelming 
force,  upon  the  mountain  side,  their  bayonets  and  lances,  shining  away, 
one  dazzling  flood  of  steel,  until  they  were  lost  in  the  distance. 

While  that  belt  of  glittering  arms  was  seen,  girdling  the  mountain's 
base,  they  poured  their  hail  of  copper  and  iron  from  every  ridge,  and 
wrapt  the  Americans  in  a  sheet  of  flame.  The  carnage  was  horrible.  One 
brave  captain — O'Brien — saw  every  man  and  horse,  around  his  cannon, 
crushed  with  the  same  fire,  into  dust.  The  second  Indiana  regiment, 
broke  their  ranks,  and  fled  towards  the  Hacienda. 

In  vain  the  gallant  Lincoln,  a  brave  descendant  of  the  Revolutionary 
hero,  endeavors  to  stay  their  flight !  In  vain  their  own  commander,  Col 
onel  Bowles,  with  a  small  and  faithful  band,  who  defy  the  panic  and  the 
foe,  places  himself  in  the  path,  waves  the  flag  of  their  Regiment,  be 
seeches  them  to  turn  and  meet  the  Mexicans  with  firm  ranks  and  woven 
steel  ! 

Seized  with  one  of  those  sudden  panics,  which  render  powerless,  the 
bravest  armies,  they  retreat  and  do  not  pause  in  their  flight,  until  the 
Hacienda  of  Buena  Vista  breaks  on  their  eyes. 

Meanwhile  the  battery  of  Washington,  threatened  by  a  steady  column, 
advancing  along  the  centre,  did  its  work,  upon  their  ranks,  and  scattered 
their  beautiful  array,  into  the  shadows  of  the  ravines. 


BUENA  VISTA.  127 

Colonel  Bissell's  men,  the  second  Illinois  regiment — you  behold  them 
yonder  upon  the  broad  plateau,  beneath  the  mountain— perform  deeds 
worthy  of  the  days  of  old.  While  Sherman's  battery,  aids  them  in  the 
bloody  task,  they  face  that  sea  of  flame  and  steel,  rushing  upon  them, 
from  the  mountain  side — fight  step  by  step,  as  they  are  driven  backward 
— wave  their  banner  and  rush  to  the  certain  death  once  more. 

At  this  moment,  in  i'act,  the  army  of  Santa  Anna,  have  poured  their 
overwhelming  force  from  the  mountain  side,  turned  the  American  flank, 
and  girdled  our  rear,  with  one  dense  mass  of  lance  and  bayonet. 

The  moment  is  critical,  the  danger  imminent.  Zachary  Taylor  feels 
that  the  arm  which  shielded  him,  at  Palo  Alta,  Resaca  De  La  Palma  and 
Monterey,  will  not  fail  him  now. 

At  his  word,  Colonel  Davis,  with  his  Mississippians,  hurries  to  the  left, 
and  the  deadly  rifles  of  the  west,  mow  down  the  advancing  Mexicans  by 
hundreds.  At  his  word,  Captain  Bragg,  thunders  away,  confronts  the 
formidable  horde,  as  it  pours  from  the  mountain  side,  and  pours  his  grape, 
into  their  closely-woven  ranks.  The  second  Kentucky  Regiment,  with 
its  commander  Me  Kee,  fought  side  by  side  with  Hardin  and  his  Illinois 
volunteers.  Amid  the  very  thickest  of  the  fight,  the  Second  Henry  Clay, 
was  seen^urging  his  countrymen  forward,  as  he  led  the  way,  and  rushed 
into  the  Mexican  battle,  sword  in  hand. 

As  we  gaze  upon  this  fight  of  the  mountain  and  ravine,  we  see  the 
Mississippi  Regiment,  completely  encircled  by  the  Mexicans,  who  only 
pour  onward,  the  faster,  as  their  ranks  are  blocked  with  dead.  The  third 
Indiana  regiment,  headed  by  Col.  Lane,  come  rushing  to  its  aid,  and  while 
Sherman  and  Bragg,  pour  their  blaze  from  the  plateau,  a  glittering  bolt 
of  battle,  with  young  May,  dashing  in  its  van,  separates  from  the  Ameri 
can  army,  and  sweeps  toward  the  mountain,  where  the  Mexican  lances, 
flash  like  a  shower  of  meteors. 

In  that  battle  bolt,  you  may  distinguish  the  regular  dragoons,  Pike's  Ar- 
kansaw  horse,  and  the  cavalry  of  Kentucky  and  Arkansaw  headed  by 
Marshall  and  Yell.  The  whole  fire  of  the  American  army  was  now  con 
centrated  upon  the  base  of  the  mountain  :  the  dead  bodies  of  the  Mexi 
cans  began  to  bridge  the  smaller  gullies,  and  flood  them  with  a  red  torrent. 

As  the  smoke,  ascending  pile  on  pile,  from  the  ravine  to  the  mountain, 
rolled  aside,  old  Taylor  saw  the  work  go  steadily  on,  and  saw  the  Banner 
of  the  Stars,  flash  beautifully  where  the  spears  and  bayonets,  joined  in 
their  deadliest  conflict. 

The  battle  whirls  away  toward  the  Hacienda  of  Buena  Vista :  you  see 
the  smoke  tossing  above  its  roof :  Santa  Anna  would  possess  the  train  of 
the  American  army.  But  May  comes  gallantly  to  the  rescue,  and  Rey 
nold's  with  two  pieces  of  cannon,  meet  the  lancers,  as  they  come,  and 
hews  them  into  dust,  as  they  fly. 


128  THE  BATTLES   OF   TAYLOR. 

Yell,  of  Arkansas  and  Marshall  of  Kentucky  are  there,  battling  with 
the  Mexicans,  horse  to  horse,  and  sword  to  sword.  That  firm  column  is 
broken,  one  portion  rushes  by  the  Hacienda,  toward  the  opposite  mountain, 
while  the  other  retracing  its  steps,  seeks  to  gain  the  mountain  on  our  left. 

As  they  receive  the  fire,  pouring  from  every  point  of  the  field,  near  the 
Hacienda,  a  brave  soldier,  creeps  from  beneath  his  dead  horse,  springs  on 
his  feet,  his  lower  jaw,  torn  away,  by  the  blow  of  a  murderous  lance. 
For  a  moment  he  stands  gazing  upon  the  divided  array  of  the  Mexicans, 
and  he  then  falls  to  rise  no  more.  The  gallant  YELL  had  fought  his  last 
battle. 

Look,  through  the  mists  of  the  battle,  and  behold  that  band  of  Mexi 
cans,  at  least  one  thousand  strong,  crowded  in  the  narrow  gorge,  which  is 
raked  by  the  American  cannon.  In  vain  they  attempt  to  fly  ;  their  ranks 
become  entangled  ;  they  are  crushed  into  the  bed  of  the  ravine  ;  a  wild 
and  affrighted  Mob,  scatters  through  the  pass  ;  where  a  moment  ago,  was 
but  one  glittering  array  of  steel,  now  is  only  a  dark  and  hideous  Golgotha. 

It  was  at  this  moment,  that  the  old  General,  calmly  surveying  the  fight, 
— his  brown  coat,  visible  from  every  part  or  the  field,  a  mark  for  the 
musquets  and  cannon  of  the  enemy — was  surprised  by  the  appearance  of 
another  messenger  from  Santa  Anna,  bearing  a  White  Flag. 

"His  Excellency  General  Santa  Anna,"  said  the  officer  bowing — 
"  Desires  to  know,  what  General  Taylor  wants  ?" 

"  Wants  ?"  echoed  the  veteran — "  I  want  him  to  surrender  !" 

This  was  bold  language  from  the  leader  of  four  thousand  volunteers, 
to  the  General  of  twenty  thousand  brave  Mexicans. 

Willing  however,  even  amid  that  hour  of  havoc,  to  hear  the  proposi 
tions  of  the  Mexican  Chief,  he  silenced  the  American  fire.  At  his  com 
mand,  the  second  General  of  the  day,  the  brave  WOOL,  rode  toward  the 
Mexican  line,  seeking  an  interview  with  Santa  Anna,  but  was  greeted  with 
a  treacherous  fire.  The  White  Flag,  was  but  a  trick  of  the  Mexican,  to 
save  the  portion  of  his  fores,  which  had  been  divided  near  the  Hacienda. 

Amid  the  clouds  which  rolled  to  the  right,  young  CRITTENDEN  of  Ken 
tucky,  a  volunteer,  for  that  day,  near  the  person  of  Taylor,  rode  forward, 
with  a  summons  to  the  commander  of  that  immense  body  of  Mexican 
cavalry,  which  had  been  cut  off'  from  the  main  body  of  the  Mexican 
army. 

He  summoned  the  commander  of  this  force  to  surrender,  in  the  name 
of  Taylor,  and  was  led  blind-folded,  through  ravine  and  gully,  until  a  loud 
flourish  of  drums  and  trumpets,  announced  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of 
Santa  Anna. 

"  Your  mission  ?" 

— "  To  demand  the  surrender  of  a  portion  of  your  force,  separated  by 
our  soldiers,  from  your  army." 

"  But  Taylor" — said  the  Mexican  Chief,  in  abrupt  tones  :  his  words 


BUENA  VISTA.  129 

were  translated  by  an  officer,  who  stood  by  his  side — "  What  does  he 
mean  to  do  ?  Surrounded  by  twenty  thousand  men,  he  must  surrender  ?" 
«  Then  it  was,  that  this  young  Kentuckian,  born  of  the  land  of  Boone, 
and  Taylor  and  Clay,  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  cheek,  as  looking  the 
Mexican  Dictator  in  the  eye,  he  uttered  the  phrase,  which  has  already, 
been  linked  with  the  '  Come  and  take  me  /'  of  ancient  story  : 

"GENERAL  TAYLOR  NEVER  SURRENDERS!" 

But  why  need  we  picture,  the  course  of  those  ten  hours  of  Buena 
Vista,  in  all  their  details  of  agony  and  glory  ?  Where  twenty  thousand 
men,  advancing  around  the  base  of  mountains,  and  dashing  from  ravines, 
level  their  forest  of  steel,  their  volcano  of  flame,  upon  a  band,  only  four 
thousand  strong,  you  may  be  sure,  that  the  carnage  is  horrible. 

But  when  we  remember,  the  wild  and  broken  nature  of  the  ground,  that 
valley  of  ridges  and  chasms,  three  miles  in  extent,  almost  impracticable, 
for  artillery  or  cavalry,  it  becomes  plain,  that  there  was  much  of  the  silent 
butchery  of  bayonet  to  lance,  and  sword  to  sword,  and  breast  to  breast. 

To  speak  of  all  the  heroes  of  the  band  of  Buena  Vista,  as  they  de 
serve,  would  fill  a  volume.  Their  conduct,  forever  frowns  into  oblivion, 
the  silly  lie,  uttered  by  silly  men,  that  the  Citizen  Soldier,  is  not  to  be 
depended  upon  in  the  hour  of  need.  These  brilliant  names,  were  that 
day,  painted  in  blood,  on  the  American  Banner — Davis,  Me  Kee,  Clay, 
Marshall,  Hardin,  Yell  and  Vaughan,  Lincoln,  Pike,  Lane  and  Wool, 
O'Brien  and  Bryan,  Bissell  and  Sherman,  Bragg  and  Reynolds,  Steen  and 
Me  Cullough,  Bowles  and  Gorman,  Kilburn  and  Rucker,  Monroe  and 
Morrison,  Brent,  Whiting  and  Couch  ;  Thomas,  French,  Shover,  Donald 
son,  May,  Washington,  Taylor — all  brave,  some  wounded,  some  killed, 
some  of  the  regular,  others  of  the  Volunteer  force,  but  all  glorious,  as 
were  a  thousand  other  heroes,  with  the  halo  of  Buena  Vista. 

From  the  scenes  of  the  bloody  day,  let  us  select  but  two,  as  memo 
rable  examples  of  the  stern  daring  of  Taylor  and  his  men. 

Mounted  on  his  grey  steed  with  one  leg  crossed  over  the  saddle,  the 
old  Man  beholds  the  Mexicans  emerge  from  yonder  ravine,  their  numbers, 
marked  by  their  lances  and  bayonets. 

Near  Zachery  Taylor,  glooms  the  battery  of  Captain  Bragg ;  a  cool 
soldier,  who  never  fires,  until  he  sees  the  color  of  the  enemys'  faces.  On 
come  the  Mexicans — on,  with  their  lances  flashing,  their  war-horses,  beat 
ing  the  earth,  with  a  sound  like  thunder,  their  entire  array,  closing  in  the 
prospect,  with  one  dazzling  battle  barricade. 

Taylor's  grey  eye  begins  to  look,  as  it  looked  at  Palo  Alto  ! 

Then  the  battery  speaks  out,  and  you  may  read  the  faces  of  an  hundred 
dyino-  men  by  its  light.  Do  you  see  that  glimpse  of  clear  sky  through 

16 


130  THE  BATTLES   OF  TAYLOR. 

their  ranks  ?  Do  you  hear  the  horrible  howl  of  horse  and  man,  go  up  to 
God  together  ? 

Taylor  bends  forward  ;  he  sees  those  columns  quiver,  but  still  the  mo 
ment  is  one  of  absording  interest.  That  cannister,  hurled  from  the  muzzle 
of  Bragg's  cannon  is  deadly — as  they  press  on,  with  but  a  few  yards  be 
tween,  it  crashes  them  down  as  though  a  bolt  from  heaven  had  blasted 
their  flags  and  lances  into  blood. 

Still  they  come  on ;  the  old  man  can  maintain  his  silence  no  longer ; 
leaning  forward,  with  every  vein  in  his  bronzed  face  glowing  and  swelling 
with  the  impulse  of  that  terrible  hour,  he  lays  his  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  the  undaunted  Captain — 

"  A  little  more  grape,  Captain  Bragg  !" 

He  says  it  in  a  whisper,  but  the  Soldier  hears  him,  and  feels  that  voice 
stir  his  blood  like  a  trumpet  peal.  Turning  away  with  a  flushed  forehead, 
he  obeys  the  mild  request  of  his  General,  and  as  the  Mexicans  come  up 
to  the  muzzles  once  more,  he  speaks  to  them  with  grape  ! 

When  the  smoke  clears  away,  you  see  the  edge  of  the  ravine  lined 
with  dead  men,  and  the  arms  of  the  retreating  Mexicans,  glittering  from 
the  shades  below. 

It  was  near  the  setting  of  the  sun,  when  the  Man  of  Palo  Alto,  Resaca 
de  la  Palma,  and  Monterey,  saw  the  clouds  come  down  on  fche  last  charge 
of  Buena  Vista,  that  a  scene,  worthy  of  the  days  of  Washington,  closed 
the  day  in  glory. 

Do  you  behold  that  dark  ravine,  deep  sunken  between  these  precipitous 
banks  ?  Here  no  sunlight  comes,  for  these  walls  of  rock  wrap  the  pass 
in  eternal  twilight.  Withered  trees  grow  between  the  masses  of  granite, 
and  scattered  stones  make  the  bed  of  the  ravine  uncertain  and  difficult  for 
the  tread. 

Hark  !  That  cry,  that  rush  like  a  mountain  torrent  bursting  its  barriers, 
and  quick  as  the  lightning  flashes  from  darkness,  the  dismal  ravine  is 
bathed  in  red  battle  light.  From  its  northern  extremity,  a  confused  band 
of  Mexicans,  an  army  in  itself,  come  yelling  along  the  pass,  treading  one 
another  down  as  they  fly,  their  banners,  spears,  horses  and  men,  tossed 
together  in  inextricable  confusion. 

By  thousands  they  rush  into  the  shadows  of  the  pass,  their  dark  faces 
reddened  by  the  sheeted  blaze  of  musquetry.  The  caverns  of  the  ravine 
sends  back  the  roar  of  the  panic,  and  the  grey  rocks  are  washed  by  their 
blood. 

But  the  little  band  who  pursues  this  army  ?  Who  are  they  ?  You 
may  see  in  their  firm  heroic  ranks,  the  volunteer  costume  of  Illinois  and 
Kentucky.  At  their  head,  urging  his  men  with  shouts,  rides  the  gallant 
M'Kee,  by  his  side  young  Henry  Clay,  that  broad  forehead,  which  re- 


BUENA   VISTA.  131 

minds  you  of  his  father,  bathed  in  the  glare,  as  his  sword  quivers  on  high 
ere  it  falls  to  kill.  There  too,  a  wild  figure,  red  with  his  own  blood  and 
the  blood  of  Mexican  foes,  his  uniform  rent  in  tatters,  his  arm  bared  to  the 
shoulder,  striking  terrible  blows  with  his  good  sword — Hardin  of  Illinois, 
comes  gallantly  forward. 

This  small,  but  iron  band,  hurl  the  Mexicans  from  the  heights  into  the 
ravine,  and  follow  up  the  chase,  far  down  into  the  eternal  twilight  of  that 
mountain  pass. 

Look !  As  their  musquetry  streams  its  steady  blaze,  you  would  think 
that  one  ceaseless  sheet  of  lightning  bathed  these  rocks  in  flame  I 

Over  the  Mexicans,  man  and  horse,  hurled  back  in  mad  disorder,  the 
Americans  dash  on  their  way,  never  heeding  the  overwhelming  numbers 
of  their  foes,  never  heeding  the  palpitating  forms  beneath  their  feet,  with 
bayonet,  and  rifle,  and  sword,  they  press  steadily  on,  their  well-known 
banner  streaming  evermore  overhead. 

The  howl  of  the  dying  war-horse — hark  !  Does  it  not  chill  your  blood 
to  hear  it?  The  bubbling  cry  of  the  wounded  man,  with  the  horse's 
hoof  upon  his  mouth,  trampling  his  face  into  a  hideous  wreck — does  it 
not  sicken  your  soul  to  hear  it  ? 

A  hundred  yards  or  more,  into  the  pass  the  Americans  have  penetrated, 
when  suddenly  a  young  Mexican,  rushing  back  upon  their  ranks,  seiz-es 
the  fallen  flag  of  Anahuac,  and  dashes  to  his  death  ! 

To  see  him,  young  and  beardless,  a  very  boy,  rush  with  his  country's 
flag,  with  his  bared  breast,  upon  that  line  of  sharp  steel — it  was  a  sight  to 
stir  cowards  into  manhood,  and  it  shot  into  the  Mexican  hearts  like  an 
electric  flame. 

Even  in  their  panic-stricken  disorder,  they  turned ;  by  hundreds  they 
grasped  their  arms,  and  rolled  in  one  long  wave  of  lance  and  bayonet,  upon 
the  foe.  Woe  to  the  brave  men  of  Illinois  and  Kentucky  now  !  Locked 
in  that  deadly  pass,  a  wall  of  infuriated  Mexicans  between  them  and  that 
wall  of  rocks — above  their  heads,  through  every  aperture  among  the 
cliffs,  the  blaze  of  musquets  pouring  a  shower  of  bullets  in  their  faces  — 
wherever  they  turned,  the  long  and  deadly  lance  poised  at  their  throats — 
it  was  a  moment  to  think  once  of  Home  and  die  ! 

Those  who  survived  that  fearful  moment,  tell  with  shuddering  triumph 
of  the  deeds  of  the  three  heroes — M'Kee,  Hardin  and  Clay. 

M'Kee,  you  see  him  yonder,  with  his  shattered  sword  dripping  blood, 
he  endeavors  to  ward  off  the  aim  of  those  deadly  lances,  and  fights  on  his 
knees  when  he  can  stand  no  longer,  and  then  the  combatants  close  over 
him  and  you  see  him  no  more. 

Hardin,  rose  from  a  heap  of  slaughtered  foes,  his  face  streaming  from 
its  hideous  lance  wounds,  and  waved  a  Mexican  flag,  in  triumph,  as  his 
life  blood  gushed  in  a  torrent  over  his  muscular  form.  That  instant,  the 
full  light  of  battle  was  upon  his  mangled  face.  Then,  flinging  the  cap- 


J32  THE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

tured  flag  to  a  brother  soldier,  he  shouted — "  Give  it  to  her,  as  a  memorial 
of  Buena  Vista !  My  Wife  !"  It  was  his  last  word.  Upon  his  bared 
breast,  the  fury  of  ten  lances  rushed,  and  the  horses'  hoofs  trampled  him 
into  the  heap  of  dead. 

But  most  sad  and  yet  most  glorious  of  all,  it  was,  to  see  the  death  of 
the  Second  HENRY  CLAY!  You  should  have  seen  him,  with  his  back 
against  yonder  rock,  his  sword  grasped  firmly,  as  the  consciousness  that 
he  bore  a  name  that  must  not  die  ingloriously,  seemed  to  fill  his  every 
vein,  and  dart  a  deadly  fire  from  his  eyes  ! 

At  that  moment  he  looked  like  the  old  Man. 

For  his  brow,  high  and  retreating,  with  the  blood-clotted  hair  waving 
back  from  its  outline,  was  swollen  in  every  ve-in,  as  though  his  Soul  shone 
from  it,  ere  she  fled  forever.  Lips  set,  brows  knit,  hand  firm — a  circle 
of  his  men  fighting  round  him — he  dashed  into  the  Mexicans,  until  his 
sword  was  wet,  his  arm  weary  with  blood. 

At  last,  with  his  thigh  splintered  by  a  ball,  he  gathered  his  proud  form 
to  its  full  height,  and  fell.  His  face,  ashy  with  .intense  agony,  he  bade 
his  comrades  to  leave  him  there  to  die.  That  ravine,  should  be  the  bed 
of  his  glory. 

But  gathering  round  him,  a  guard  of  breasts  and  steel — while  two  of 
their  number  bore  him  tenderly  along — those  men  of  Kentucky  fought 
round  their  fallen  hero,  and  as  retreating  step  by  step,  they  launched  their 
swords  and  bayonets  into  the  faces  of  the  foe,  they  said  with  every  blow — 
«  HENRY  CLAY  !" 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  how  that  name  nerved  their  arms,  and  called 
a  smile  to  the  face  of  the  dying  hero.  How  it  would  have  made  the  heart 
of  the  old  man  of  Ashland  throb,  to  have  heard  his  name,  yelling  as  a  battle 
cry,  down  the  shadows  of  that  lonely  pass  ! 

Along  the  ravine,  and  up  this  narrow  path  !  The  Hero  bleeds  as  they 
bear  him  on,  and  tracks  the  way  with  his  blood.  Faster  and  thicker  the 
Mexicans  swarm — they  see  the  circle  around  the  fallen  man,  even  see  his 
pale  face,  uplifted,  as  a  smile  crosses  it  fading  lineaments,  and  like  a  pack 
of  wolves  scenting  the  frozen  traveller  at  dead  of  night,  they  come  howl 
ing  up  the  rocks,  and  charge  the  devoted  band  with  one  dense  mass  of 
bayonets. 

Up  and  on !  The  light  shines  yonder,  on  the  topmost  rocks  of  the 
ravine. — It  is  the  light  of  the  setting  sun.  Old  Taylor's  eye  is  upon  that 
rock,  and  there  we  will  fight  our  way,  and  die  in  the  old  man's  sight ! 

It  was  a  murderous  way,  that  path  up  the  steep  bank  of  the  ravine  ! 
Littered  with  dead,  slippery  with  blood,  it  grew  blacker  every  moment 
with  swarming  Mexicans,  and  the  defenders  of  the  wounded  hero,  fell  one 
by  one,  into  the  chasms  yawning  all  around. 

At  last  they  reach  the  light,  the  swords  and  bayonets  glitter  in  sight  of 


BUENA  VISTA.  133 

the  contending  armies,  and  the  bloody  contest  roars  towards  the  topmost 
rock. 

Then  it  was,  that  gathering  up  his  dying  frame — armed  with  superna 
tural  vigor — young  Clay  started  from  the  arms  of  his  supporters,  and  stood 
with  outstretched  hands,  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun.  It  was  a  glorious 
sight  which  he  saw  there,  amid  the  rolling  battle  clouds  ;  Santa  Anna's 
formidable  array  hurled  back  into  ravine  and  gorge,  by  Taylor's  little 
band !  But  a  more  glorious  thing  it  was  to  see,  that  dying  man,  standing 
for  the  last  time,  in  the  light  of  that  sun,  which  never  shall  rise  for  him 
again ! 

"  Leave  me  !"  he  shrieked,  as  he  fell  back  on  the  sod — "  I  must  die 
and  I  will  die  here  !  Peril  your  lives  no  longer  for  me  !  Go !  There 
is  work  for  you  yonder  !" 

The  Mexicans  crowding  on,  hungry  for  slaughter,  left  no  time  for 
thought.  Even  as  he  spoke,  their  bayonets,  glistening  by  hundreds,  were 
levelled  at  the  throats  of  the  devoted  band.  By  the  mere  force  of  their 
overwhelming  numbers,  they  crushed  them  back  from  the  side  of  the 
dying  Clay. 

One,  only  lingered ;  a  brave  man,  who  had  known  the  chivalric  Sol 
dier,  and  loved  him  long ;  he  stood  there,  and  covered  as  he  was  with 
blood,  heard  these  last  words  : 

"  Tell  my  Father  how  1  died,  and  give  him  these  pistols  /" 

Lifting  his  ashy  face,  into  light,  he  turned  his  eyes,  upon  his  comrades 
face — placed  the  pistols  in  his  hand — and  fell  back  to  his  death. 

That  Comrade,  with  the  pistols  in  his  grasp,  fought  his  way  alone  to 
the  topmost  rock  of  the  path,  and  only  once  looked  back.  He  saw,  a 
quivering  form,  canopied  by  bayonets — he  saw  those  outstretched  hands 
grappling  with  points  of  steel — he  saw  a  pale  face  lifted  once,  in  the  light, 
and  then  darkness,  rushed  upon  the  life  of  the  young  HENRY  CLAY. 

Placing  his  hands  behind  his  back,  with  his  head  on  his  breast,  a  tall 
old  man,  strode  thoughtfully  along  the  carpet,  of  his  chamber.  It  was 
near  the  evening  hour,  and  the  blush  of  summer,  was  upon  those  woods 
and  hills,  which  you  may  see  through  the  uncurtained  window. 

Were  you  to  meet  this  old  man  among  ten  thousand  you  would  know 
him  when  you  saw  him  again,  and  did  you  once  behold  that  wide  mouth, 
wreathe  in  a  smile,  that  grey  eye,  fire  with  soul,  that  brow,  high  and  re 
lenting,  glow  with  his  heart,  you  would  be  very  sure  to  love  him. 

But  the  voice,  that  rings  from  those  lips,  and  swells  from  that  chest — 
you  should  hear  it,  melt  in  pity,  or  hiss  in  scorn,  or  thunder  forth  the 
frenzy  of  a  great  soul ' 

Plainly  clad  in  a  dark  dress,  his  face  covered  with  the  large  wrinkles 
of  seventy  years,  this  old  man,  is  thinking  over  his  life.  From  a  log  hut 
into  a  Senate,  from  the  arms  of  a  widowed  mother,  into  the  Jove  of  a  na- 


134  THE  BATTLES   OF  TAYLOR. 


—  an  impressive  life,  wild,  vivid  startling,  in  on  every  line,  with 
Genius. 

But  he  is  old  now.  Those  grey  hairs,  tell  of  the  coming  on  of  the  fast 
crowding  years.  The  things  of  political  strife,  who  loved  the  old  man, 
as  a  miser  loves  a  diamond,  not  on  account  of  its  pure  and  beautiful  light, 
but  from  the  great  query  —  how  much  will  it  bring?  —  seem  to  have  for 
gotten  him.  They  have  left  him,  to  the  Hearts  of  the  People. 

He  paces  the  floor,  and  thinks  of  the  days  he  has  seen.  Born  in  the 
Revolution,  he  grew  up  among  its  memories  and  saw  the  greatest  among 
its  great  men. 

Where  are  they  now  ?  Where  the  comrades  of  his  earlier  days  ? 
Where  the  compeers  of  his  manhood  ?  Where  the  most  gallant  of  all 
his  foes,  whose  soul,  was  warmed  with  fire,  like  that  which  gave  his  own 
heart  its  energy,  its  love  and  its  fate,  where  the  Man  of  New  Orleans  and 
the  Hermitage  ? 

There  is  grass  above  his  grave. 

Like  the  last  column,  standing  erect,  in  a  desert  of  ruins,  the  old  man  is 
left  alone. 

You  may  take  my  word  for  it,  that  his  thoughts  at  this  still  hour,  are 
strangled  and  contrasted  in  their  hues,  as  the  Ghosts  of  the  Past,  come 
crowding  up  to  him,  their  faces  looking  sadly  out  from  the  shrouds  of 
Memory. 

The  door  is  opened  —  a  man  appears,  whose  scarred  face,  and  battle- 
worn  figure,  speak  of  the  land  of  Mexico.  You  gaze  upon  the  old  man, 
as  he  motions  the  Stranger  to  a  seat.  He  reads  in  that  face,  the  volume 
of  a  sad  yet  heroic  history.  The  Stranger  does  not  move,  but  stands  in 
the  sunset  glow,  his  nether  lip,  quivering  faintly. 

Advancing  he  endeavors  to  speak,  but  there  is  a  spell  on  his  tongue. 

He  can  only  place  in  the  old  man's  hands  a  pair  of  pistols. 

"BuENA  VISTA  !"  he  said,  and  turned  away  —  unwilling  to  witness  the 
tears  and  agony  of  the  Father. 

When  he  looked  again  —  the  twilight  shadow  was  gathering  fast  —  the 
old  man,  stood  near  the  window  gazing  silently  upon  those  eloquent  me 
morials  of  HENRY  CLAY,  his  Son. 

We  left  the  young  hero,  on  his  couch  of  stone,  with  twenty  bayonets 
in  his  breast.  That  ravine,  far  down  into  the  shadows,  was  lined  with 
Mexicans,  who  came  swarming  towards,  the  topmost  rock,  glittering  in 
the  sunset  glow.  From  every  nook  and  cavern,  they  poured,  like  jackals 
to  a  warrior's  corse,  and  —  their  overwhelming  numbers,  lighting  the  dark 
pass,  with  an  endless  blaze  of  steel  —  they  advanced,  to  the  topmost  rock, 
and  displayed  in  battle  order,  along  the  summit  of  the  ridge. 

But  the  battery  yonder,  stationed  on  a  higher  ridge  —  what  does  it 
mean  ?  Washington  and  his  sturdy  cannoniers,  are  there  !  On  the 


BUENA  VISTA. 

plateau,  you  see,  the  riflemen  of  Mississippi,  stand  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
with  the  volunteers  of  Indiana,  with  the  cannon  of  Bragg,  frowning 
through  the  intervals  of  their  solid  ranks. 

The  sun,  was  setting,  and  that  firm  array  on  the  plateau,  looked  beau 
tiful,  as  it  stood  prepared,  to  receive  the  last  onset  of  the  Mexican  horde. 
Not  a  shout  disturbed  the  silence,  on  the  American  side. 

The  Mexicans — you  behold  them  by  thousands,  horse  and  foot,  along 
the  summit  of  this  ridge — their  banners,  spears  and  bayonets,  forming 
one  glittering  pageant,  as  far  as  eye  can  see. 

Look  on  them  well,  in  this  moment  of  their  glory,  for  a  smoke  rolls 
over  the  plateau,  and  the  hurricane  of  death,  is  on  its  way  ! 

When  the  smoke  rolls  up  the  Mouutain  side,  you  see  the  ridge  heaped 
with  dead,  while  far  down  the  ravine,  rushes  the  wreck  of  that  formidable 
force,  retreating  from  the  last  charge  of  Buena  Vista. 

Night  on  Buena  Vista  ! 

It  was  a  sad,  an  awful  night.  The  stars  shone  serenely  on  the  moun 
tain  top,  while  all  beneath  was  dim  and  dark.  Through  the  gloom,  at 
irregular  intervals  broke  the  glare  of  torch-light,  only  making  the  darkness 
more  sad  and  dismal.  . 

The  Americans  slept  on  their  arms,  without  fire.  The  night  was  bitter 
cold;  the  moans  of  the  dying,  joined  in  chorus,*from  the  depths  of  the 
ravines  ;  and  the  living  moved  silently  along,  endeavoring  to  recognise, 
their  own  dead  by  the  light  of  the  stars. 

From  afar,  the  camp  fires  of  Santa  Anna's  army,  were  seen,  ever  and 
again,  as  the  battle  vapor  rolled  aside.  The  Americans  slept  well,  on 
their  tired  arms,  but  in  the  passes  of  the  defile,  upon  the  ridges  and  over 
the  plateau,  there  were  those  who  slumbered  not. 

The  women  of  Mexico,  soothing  the  agonies  of  the  dying  strangers  ! 

Their  garments,  fluttered  through  the  darkness,  as  they  went  to  and  fro, 
staunching  the  blood,  placing  to  the  feverish  lip,  the  cup  of  water,  bending 
beside  the  dying  in  prayer.  Prayer  in  a  strange  tongue,  prayer  on  a 
strange  battle  field,  in  a  strange  land— how  it  went  to  the  hearts  of  the 
American  soldiers,  and  made  them  remember  the  Homes,  they  should 
never  see  again ! 

There  were  others  who  slumbered  not,  but  watched  in  anxious  expec 
tation,  for  the  moment,  when  the  conflict  would  begin  again. 

Amid  the  band  of  watchers,  on  the  summit  of  yonder  ridge,  stands  the 
old  man,  Zachary  Taylor,  his  form  dimly  revealed  in  the  light  of  the 
stars.  Beside  him  his  favorite  grey  ;  before  him,  the  darkened  field, 
yawning  with  chasms,  he  stands  with  uncovered  head,  his  grey  eyes  up 
lifted  to  the  sky.  The  morrow  ?  What  new  danger  will  it  bring,  what 
new  conflict  in  those  hideous  gorges  of  Buena  Vista  ?  Through  the  live 
long  night  the  old  warrior  prepared  for  the  worst. 


W4  .aE  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR. 

The  morning  came  at  last,  and  looking  to  the  south,  far  through  the 
mountain  pass,  Zachary  Taylor,  beheld  the  retreating  banners  of  Santa 
Anna. 

Then  it  was,  that  sitting  down  amid  the  dead  of  that  heroic  fight,  the 
old  man  penned  his  immortal  despatch,  and  sent  word  to  the  Capitol, 
that  with  his  four  thousand  untried  volunteers,  he  had  beaten  Santa  Anna 
and  twenty  thousand  men,  in  the  chasms  of  Buena  Vista. 

That  word  rang  through  the  American  Union,  like  a  voice  from  the 
grave  of  Washington,  and  thundering  along  the  Gulf  of  Mexico,  it  nerved 
the  arms  of  the  brave  men,  who  besieged  the  Castle  of  San  Juan  De 
Ulloa,  and  found  its  glorious  consumation  in  the  fall  of  Vera  Cruz  and 
route  of  CERRO  GORDO. 


THE    END. 


TO  THE 

REV.    C.   CHAUNCEY   BURR: 

When  first  I  determined  to  write  the  Legends  of  Mexico — ancient  and  modern, 

from  the  era  of  Scott  and  Taylor,  back  through  the  mists  of  ages,  to  Cortez  and 
Montezuma — it  was  your  generous  sympathy  with  my  purposes,  that  gave  me  strength 
and  deepened  my  enthusiasm  for  the  jask.  These  works  on  Mexico — every  one  of 
which  is  intended  to  be  distinct  and  separate,  yet  forming  together,  a  complete  book 
on  the  '  golden  and  bloody  land' — I  now  dedicate  to  you,  in  this  the  first  of  the  series, 
embodying  the  BATTLES  OF  TAYLOR.  This  Dedication,  my  tried  friend,  is  no  less  a 
token  of  that  brotherhood  which  I  feel  with  you,  than  a  tribute  to  your  commanding 
Genius,  which  having  ranked  you  among  the  first  orators,  will  soon  claim  admiration 
for  you,  among  the  first  Essayists  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 

Your  friend, 

GEORGE  LIPPARD, 
AUGUCT  15,  1847.  WISSAHIKON. 


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